A Second Harvest (Men of Lancaster County Book 1)

by Eli Easton

  There was absolute silence at the table. Joe’s mouth fell open and his complexion went a grayish red. Amy looked just as stunned, but after a moment, she blinked and shook her head, as if in denial. “Is this… I mean, are you sure? He’s so young and…. How long have you been seeing him?” She sounded so doubtful.

  David nodded tersely, even while his insides tumbled with stress. “He’s thirty years old. And yes, I’m sure.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But he’s…. I mean, does he feel the same way? Are you sure he’s not just messing with you?”

  “Of course he’s messing with him!” Joe shouted. “He’s going to move back to the city, and that will be the end of that. And you’re going to be left to face the fallout, Dad. With the church. With… with your family. What is Gran going to say, huh? Or Amanda and her family? Is anyone going to want to do business with the farm? Have you thought about that at all? This isn’t only about you, Dad. You’re going to totally ruin things for Amy and me too! And what about mom’s memory?”

  David lost it. It was too much. To go from the heights he experienced tonight, seeing Christie again, holding him, what they did in bed, to this, this accusation and imposed shame and… and pure selfishness.

  Something inside him snapped. There was an old china teapot that sat in the middle of the kitchen table with the salt and pepper shakers. Susan had kept it there for years. Now it was the closest missile at hand. David stood up abruptly, his chair falling over. He picked up the china teapot and threw it at the back wall where it smashed into a thousand pieces.

  “Daddy!” Amy shouted, outraged. “That was Mom’s!”

  David couldn’t care less. He looked around and grabbed the next thing at hand, a picture of a farm scene on the wall. He tore it off its hook and threw it at the wall too. It cracked and fell.

  “Dad!”

  It wasn’t enough, not nearly. He took a step and opened the nearest cupboard door. Inside were glass mason jars Susan had used for canning, dozens of them. He grabbed some with both hands and started lobbing them at the back wall with all his might like a baseball pitcher. Crash. Crash. Crash.

  He had no idea what he was doing, all he knew was he was filled with rage, sadness, bitterness…. There was so much anger inside him, and it had to come out. Better the dishes than Joe or, God forbid, the shotgun he kept up in the bedroom, the one he sometimes imagined aiming at his own head. Crash.

  He heard himself shouting, but he was barely aware of forming the words. “Your mother’s memory? Really? I’m supposed to stay locked up in this house forever for your mother’s memory? Did it ever occur to you that I want a life too?” Crash.

  Amy and Joe retreated to the kitchen doorway, as far from him as they could get. Crash.

  “Do this, David, do that! Go to the store! Feed the cows! Do the milking! Get married! Put money in the bank! Stop daydreaming! Go to church! Marry Evelyn Robeson! I’m sick of it!” Crash.

  “What about me? You get to go to college! You get a life! You get someone to pay your way!” Crash. “Am I just supposed to sit down and shut up and do what everyone else wants my entire life?” Crash. “I wanted something for me. I reached out for something just for me, for once in my life!” Crash.

  Amy’s sobs broke through the haze in his mind. He turned to see her crying in the doorway, her hands over her mouth. Big, bone-deep sobs choked out of her throat. Joe, next to her, was pale and shaken like he was terrified of his own father. And suddenly, as if he’d been slapped, the anger drained out of him. He felt exhausted and like a total bully. He’d scared his kids.

  “I’m sorry,” David whispered. “I shouldn’t have….” He found he still had a mason jar in one hand. He put it on the counter, grabbed his coat from the floor, and went out the back door.

  Chapter 21

  After David left with his kids, Christie slumped against the front door, forehead pressed to the wood. He heard the angry slamming of car doors, heard Joe pull away with squealing tires, and the reversing of David’s truck from the driveway. Then they were gone, and it was silent.

  Christie heaved in deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. That had not been good, not good at all. He felt nauseous.

  You knew this day was coming. There was no avoiding it.

  Yes, but why, for God’s sake, did it have to happen like that? On New Year’s Eve, yet? With Joe and Amy arriving like a crashing freight train into his home and their private time together? He figured David would have to tell his kids eventually, maybe sit them down for a quiet conversation at his house. And maybe once they were done screaming, Christie would be slowly introduced. Not like this. This was the worst.

  Yes, possibly one of the worst moments of his entire life, if not the worst.

  Something hot stung his cheeks. Tears. Goddamn it. He punched the door. He didn’t care about himself. Those two could be disgusted all they wanted with him. He didn’t want to care what they thought, but David cared. They were his children. He didn’t deserve to be treated like that, to be yelled at and slut shamed.

  How would David handle it? What if this was too much? What if the ruts of his life ran too deep after all? I think it’s for the best if we stop seeing each other. David would avoid his eyes when he said it. Maybe he’d give up, live the rest of his life married to some church lady or alone.

  “No!” Christie said it out loud and pushed back from the door. “Hell no!”

  David was his. He made David happy, and David made him happy, and everyone else could go take a long run off a short pier. But… it wasn’t his battle to fight. It was David’s. All Christie could do was hope he was strong enough to fight it and be ready to comfort and support him as soon as he could.

  He paced in the living room, looked at the clock. It was twelve fifteen. They’d missed New Year’s entirely. Great.

  He grabbed his phone and hesitated. Kyle would be partying in Times Square. But it was after the golden hour, so maybe he was on his way home…. He sent a text. It was only a matter of minutes before his phone rang. Caller ID said Kyle.

  “What’s up?” Kyle sounded worried, and his voice was raised over background noise.

  “Oh God, Kyle! I’m so sorry to bother you. But something terrible happened.”

  “It’s fine. We’re just making our way to the subway. Tell me.”

  Christie described what had happened, his voice alternating between hard and angry and quivering.

  “Oh, babe, I’m so sorry!” Kyle cooed. “That sucks ass. And on New Year’s Eve too!”

  “I’m… I’m so scared,” Christie admitted. He dropped onto the couch and pulled the afghan around him. His hands and feet were icy, and he was shivering. It had little to do with the temperature in the house or the fact he still wore nothing but sweatpants.

  “Oh, sweetie!”

  “What if he dumps me, Kyle? I don’t think I can take it.”

  “If he does, then he would have skipped out sooner or later. You know that, babe. No one can walk out of a closet for someone else. He has to do that all on his own.”

  “I know,” Christie whispered.

  “Besides, if he lets you go, he’s a total idiot.”

  “No, he’s a good man. That’s what worries me. He’s such a good man. What if he decides to sacrifice his own happiness for his kids? Or what if they convince him it’s a sin and he repents or something?”

  “Christie, listen to me. If he really loves you and he’s not a total pussy, he will stand up for you and tell his kids to mind their own business. If he doesn’t, he’s not worth it.”

  In his heart Christie knew that was true. He also knew David was not a pushover and they had an incredibly strong connection. Tonight was incredible before they were interrupted. He had to have faith in his boyfriend.

  “It’s fine,” Christie said, taking a deep breath. “I’m just freaking out right now. I’m sure David won’t change his mind. I just feel so bad for him. It’s not fair.”

  “I know it’s not fair,�
� Kyle agreed sadly. “But it must be weird for them, right? Like suddenly their dad is gay? And they have to feel sort of betrayed and weird about their mom and everything. Maybe it just needs to sink in, and they’ll come around. All the news reports say the younger generation is more open-minded, even in churches.”

  “That’s true.” Christie remembered Joe’s face. He didn’t think Joe would ever come around. Amy? Maybe. At least she seemed like a sweet person.

  Who had a little crush on you. Yeah, that didn’t help.

  There was a sharp knock on the door. Christie’s heart leapt and he sat up. “I think David’s back. I’ve got to go.”

  “Oh good! Text me later and let me know you’re okay?”

  “I will. Thanks for the talk. I love you so much!”

  “I love you too, babe! Mwaaa!”

  Christie hung up and tossed the phone on the couch next to him. He was walking toward the door with a smile when something smashed through the front window. Glass flew, something stung Christie’s cheek, and the world tilted on its axis.

  Christie stood frozen in the middle of the living room, staring at the large rock and smattering of glass on the living room rug. And then the front door was kicked in.

  Three strangers walked into Christie’s house. He didn’t recognize any of their faces, but he knew why they were there. They were young, rough, and their faces radiated hate. They were bullies, gay bashers.

  He spun and dived for his phone. He had to call 911. But the phone was kicked from his hand with a steel-toed boot. His fingers screamed in pain and the phone went flying into the wall. He heard it crack.

  That’s my new iPhone, motherfuckers!

  He momentarily considered running for the back door. But he probably couldn’t outrun all three of them, not without a head start. Instead he stood tall, crossed his arms over his chest, ignored the agony in his fingers, and glared at the strangers.

  They were drunk. He could smell it on them and see it on their faces. God knew Christie had seen enough drunks in the bars. The one on the left, the tallest one, was skinny but mean looking with a red beard, acne, and a Stones sweatshirt. His fists were clenched. The guy on the right was overweight, snub-nosed, and sneering. Under a brown coat he had an orange sweatshirt with deer antlers on the front. He held a baseball bat. The guy in the middle had long, curly dark hair, floppy lips over gnarly teeth, and he wore a dark-blue parka vest over a black hoodie. He held a knife in his right hand.

  Fear skittered down Christie’s spine. Shit.

  “What do you want?” His voice was steady.

  “You’re the gay boy,” said the one with the knife. “Moving here, waving your fairy ass around, corrupting people.”

  “Goddamn fags,” said the redhead.

  The one with the bat just raised it menacingly. “We hate fags. You all deserve to burn.”

  “Get out of my house,” Christie said coolly. “Or maybe you like the idea of going to jail for the rest of your pathetic hick lives?” He knew he was in trouble. Bad trouble. But he couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut.

  “The only person going anywhere is you,” said the one with the knife. “You’re going to move back to wherever faggy place you came from, like tomorrow. David Fisher doesn’t want you here. Nobody wants your gay ass here. Get the fuck out of town while you can still move, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “If you can still move after we’re done with you,” said the one with the baseball bat.

  This was definitely about David, then. Were they friends of Joe’s? Maybe they were just trying to scare him. Please, God, let them just be trying to scare him. Say, “Fine.” Say, “Sure, I’ll leave.” Then call the police once they’re gone. Placate them, Christie. Come on.

  But Christie suddenly wasn’t afraid; he was pissed. Deep, dark, bile-sour anger boiled up inside him. He’d been through too much tonight, and these assholes were in his house.

  “I will fucking see whoever I want to see,” he spat out. “So fuck. You.”

  “Bad answer,” said the guy with the knife, his voice shaky with rage.

  “Let’s see how you feel after this!” said Orange Sweatshirt.

  The first blow was from the bat. Christie saw it coming and tried to dodge to the left around the couch, but it came in fast and hard, and it struck his elbow. The pain was immediate and excruciating. He was sure it was broken or at least cracked.

  He fell onto the couch, clutching his elbow. Despite the pain he somehow scrambled over the back cushions. He had to reach the kitchen door, get out. He was a strong runner. If he could only get out into the open air, get a little space between them.

  He made it a few steps into the kitchen before someone tackled him, wrapping around his hips and sending him off his feet. He landed on the linoleum, hitting his hurt elbow again. He screamed. Broken—something in his arm was definitely broken. He kicked his legs furiously and tried to crawl forward toward the door.

  “Get off me! I’ll kill you! Get off!”

  Hands dragged him backward, the linoleum skittered under the outstretched fingers of his good hand. A fist punched his back, hard. Someone kicked his leg. He felt the blows, but they were nothing compared to the white-hot fire in his elbow.

  “You will leave town, you little fag! We’ll fucking make you! Say it! Say you’ll leave!”

  He was pushed over onto his back. All the hands on him felt filthy, dirty, obscene. The guy who had the knife punched him in the face. It hurt but the angle was awkward. Christie lashed out with his good hand, hitting anything he could find. He was still screaming, apparently. A hand covered his mouth and he bit it, hard.

  “I will fucking kill you!” someone screamed. It sounded a lot like his own voice.

  He was punched in the face. Again. Again. Pain seared in his ribs as a boot landed. It became agonizing just drawing breath.

  I will fucking kill you. I will…. He continued to fight as hard as he could. As hard as he could, the ball-less bastards, fucking limp dicked rednecks, even while part of his brain went offline from shock and pain, shutting itself away from the scene like it was closing the door on a pantomime.

  He could die tonight, end up one of those gay-bashing martyrs, a face on a poster.

  God, that would kill David.

  Not from these three losers. They aren’t smart enough to end me.

  The room was silent. He opened his eyes. Darkness danced in dots on the edge of his vision like a shadow-people version of The Nutcracker. He was alone in the house. And he was alive.

  He tried to speak and bubbles came out. He didn’t have to wipe them to know they’d be bloody. He could barely draw breath.

  They meant to scare me, not kill me. You went a bit too far, you fucking idiots.

  He was badly hurt. Badly. Hurt. Broken arm. Broken ribs, likely. Maybe a punctured lung. He could barely expand his chest around a stabbing pain, and his nose was probably broken too, swollen shut and throbbing. Air was now the most precious commodity on earth.

  Phone. Call 911. Do it. Move, goddamn it.

  He managed, hissing in agony, to crawl into the living room. Phone. Where was his phone? Oh yeah, it had hit the wall.

  He found the phone. It took a long time. He might have passed out as he crawled around looking for it, more than once.

  The phone was dead. His bloody, crooked fingers hit the On button again and again, but the screen remained cracked and dark. He had never turned on the land line, so his cell phone was all he had.

  God, please help me, I don’t want to die, he thought.

  David, he thought.

  Then he thought no more.

  Chapter 22

  David jogged out to the barn. It was dark and frigid—hell, it had to be past midnight by now. Happy New Year’s Eve. He turned on the lights and made his way to his workshop. He shut the door but didn’t lock it. If Amy or Joe needed him….

  He couldn’t lock the door against them. A father never stopped wanting to be there for his kids, even when
they just pissed him off more than he’d ever been pissed off in his entire life.

  But now he just felt defeated. He sat down on the stool at his workbench and slumped, face in his hands. What the hell was he going to do?

  But he already knew—it was a horrible, vile, crawling sensation in his gut, like Satan emerging from the pit. His eyes stung. He blinked them rapidly.

  Maybe he should break it off with Christie. Life just wasn’t going to let him be. If he continued with this course, every single thing in his life would be set against him. As angry as Joe made him, he had a point. No one could take the farm from him, of course, but if he lived openly with Christie here, his neighbors would probably be shocked and many of them would avoid him. It was a conservative area. All the support he had from the Mennonite community and his church would be gone. Amy and Joe and his mother would probably also be estranged. He might not have trouble with the dairy company who took his milk or the co-op where he sold his crops, but he wasn’t positive about that. And even if he could take all of that hostility himself, was it fair to expect Christie—lively, confident Christie—to be subjected to that too? On the other hand, if he sold the farm, what then? He’d be a nobody with no career, no friends, no family. Would Christie want him then?

  It was all too much to bear, too much. He felt as hollow and blasted out as a railroad tunnel. He needed to write a letter. He needed to. He searched around the workshop and found a pen but no paper.

  He had to write a letter to… to whom? To Christie saying good-bye? To Joe laying down the law? To God asking “why me?” An editorial to the local paper ranting about injustice? David wasn’t even sure what he was going to put down in writing, only that he needed to. Why couldn’t he find a goddamn piece of paper?

  He searched the workroom, then out in the feeding aisle and milking stalls area. Why didn’t he keep a notebook out here? What the hell was wrong with him? Even the back of a damn blank receipt would do.