by Erica Boyce
Jerry, the postman, grunts when I hand him the slip. He hands me an envelope, and I duck out of the building, smiling thinly at Betsy and Sharon. I don’t look at the return address until I’m in the truck. It’s the community development organization I’d written to last month to ask about a small business loan. I throw the envelope onto the floor of the passenger’s seat and reach for the cigarettes in the glove box.
* * *
Daniel has been noticed, it seems. The truth is, whenever he’s around, my jaw clenches and my shoulders square, fighting the undertow of his still, calm silence. Sam came up with his grand plan after his previous diagnosis, the prostate. We sat in the doctor’s office and listened as the percentages they rattled off got lower and lower, then drove home mutely, the local soft rock station prattling on in the background.
As he turned the wheel to head down our driveway, it burst out of him like a held balloon. “A buddy of mine out in Nebraska sent me this video he found hidden way down in the internet. About kids that make crop circles?”
I blinked. Sam is like that, always pulling ideas from thin air—or, more recently, from online—but there was an edge to this one, razor-fine and desperate. “Really?”
“Yeah. And you know, I was thinking. Wouldn’t that be a great way to get people to come here, to Munsen? I mean, imagine if they all thought they were getting a message from some greater power asking them—no, telling them—to get to farming here. Well, they might actually do it, before it’s too…”
He stared off at the house. I patted his hand. “I’ll make you a sandwich for lunch.”
He didn’t bring it up again until the week before his last appointment, but even so, I could tell his last successful remission had not stoppered this particular dream in his head.
“Hey, Molls, come check this out,” he’d said, calling me over to his computer after dinner one night. “I followed a couple links from that video and found an email address some person online claimed belonged to one of those crop circle guys. The emailer put me in touch with this boy.”
He pointed at the screen, and there, not unlike a personals ad, was his email’s subject line: “Vt Farmer Seeks Msg from the Future.” And underneath it, the response: “Sure, I can help you. Coming east from Minnesota in a couple weeks. Message me for details.–Daniel”
“I knew he would bite. I messaged him already, and he’s going to call me tonight. Isn’t that spectacular?”
“Sure. Sure it is.” My eyes wandered to the green fields out our window, the corn feathered over with tassels. The question came out unbidden. “How much will he charge for all that?”
He placed his hand on my back. “That’s the best part. These kids work for free! They ask you to give them the name of a farm in your town looking to hire another set of hands so they can have a day job, and then they work on your circle in the night. Just like moonlighting, eh?” He nudged my hip with his shoulder, and I gave him half the chuckle he was looking for.
He sighed and pulled me into his lap. I could feel every rib, every bone in his legs. I laid my head back on his shoulder.
“What am I going to do without you?”
His exhale was sharp in my ear. “Don’t even talk like that. I feel great. The doctors won’t find anything in me. They can’t. I just know it.” He tightened his arms around my waist, willing it into truth.
* * *
And now that strange boy appears in our house and works carefully in our fields while I stare at the ceiling and hope for sleep. And he knows, because I somehow couldn’t stop myself from telling him, because I suddenly couldn’t stand the silence. And soon enough, it will seep out through the town, over bottles of cheap beer or in line at the store, whenever he hopes whispered gossip will help him belong. And they’ll come, again. They’ll come with sad eyes and cold casseroles topped with crushed potato chips in glass dishes that I’ll have to return. They’ll come to say how much they’d hoped the prostate was the last time. They’ll come to lay their callused hands on my arm, to force swift smiles when Sam comes into the room. They’ll come to me just as I’ve come to them a thousand times before, and there’s nothing I can do.
Chapter Eight
Daniel
The next time I go to Sam’s field, she’s there again. The porch light is fighting a losing battle against the surrounding night. She’s sitting in a rocking chair beneath it, one leg up and the other pushing against the floor. The chair creaks as she rocks. She holds a paperback in her hands, and she’s tugging on that curl again, the one behind her right ear.
“Isn’t it a little late for you to be out here reading?”
If she’s surprised to see me, she does a great job of hiding it. “What is it, 1:00 a.m.? Perfect time for a little Anne of Green Gables.” She waves her book in the air. A girl in red pigtails grins up from the cover. “It was my favorite when I was a kid,” she says and hands it to me. “I like to read a little bit from my old copy every time I come home. Did you ever read it?”
I shake my head, using one finger to keep her place while I run another over the fraying edges of the pages. “No. Can’t say that I did.”
“That figures. I’ve yet to meet a guy who’s read any L. M. Montgomery.” She chews her lip for a beat before scrambling to her feet. “What are we doing tonight, boss?”
I almost choke. “You want to help?”
“Sure, why not? Unless that violates some sort of crop circle code.” She smiles lopsidedly.
“No, of course not.” I follow her as she bounds down the stairs and out to the field like an overgrown puppy. To be honest, we’re not supposed to let other people in on the circles. The more people who know your identity, the more likely it is your cover will be blown. But she caught me off guard the night we met, so now she knows all about it anyway. And it’s no use being a stickler for the rules with her. She’ll probably just watch me from the window if I send her back to the house.
I’m hoping against hope that she doesn’t bring up Claire again when she says, “You must get a kick out of laughing at the dumb hicks who believe in aliens.”
I stop short. “No.” I shake my head hard. She raises her eyebrows. I may have said it too loudly.
“At first, it just seemed like a cool way to see the country. Move from farm to farm, make these weird things with my own hands. But then.” I pause and point up to the empty black road that passes their farm. “You should see it when they come. First, a truck will slow down and some guy will get out, shade his eyes, maybe grab a photo with his phone. Then the truck will peel off, he’ll go gather up a few friends, neighbors. And they’ll come and leave and get more, until the whole road is lined with cars and everyone in the town is standing there, kids in the front, women and men in the back, all one shape, no book clubs or bowling teams. All of them together, just looking. For that one hour or so, the entire town is there, suspending their disbelief.”
I look up. Nessa’s staring at me, her head tilted a little to the side. Finally, she just says, “And that’s when you jump out and say, ‘ta-da.’”
This time, I know she’s joking. “I’m in the back of the crowd, usually. Once or twice, I was that first guy in the truck, but people started to look at me sideways when I was the one who found it.”
She pokes her tongue into her cheek. “Huh.” We stand there for a moment, staring out at the cornstalks swaying in the breeze. “And then the corn harvest for that year is kind of fucked, I guess.”
“Most farmers claim they can still harvest everything once it’s been broken, no problem.”
She nods and reaches for that curl, then seems to change her mind. “What can I do to help?”
“Go check out what it looks like from the road?”
She runs up the steep little hill and stands there with her hands on her hips, scanning the field. Claire used to stand like that and whoop softly, blow me a kiss if it look
ed good, shake her head a little if it was wrong, her white-blond ponytail swinging.
“Everything looks great, I think,” Nessa says after she’s loped back down to me. “What’s it supposed to look like?”
I show her the plans in the weak glow stretching from the porch light. The paper crackles as she holds it up to her face. I wonder if she knows that everyone in town is talking about her return. They say her name like she’s famous, embarrassed by the amount of affection in their voices. They wonder why she’s home outside the holidays, argue with each other over where she’s working nowadays. Even Mrs. Shannon asked me this morning if I’d met her yet, with the same studied casualness as all the other town matchmakers I’ve met. I mumbled something noncommittal into a spoonful of cereal.
Even in the dark, though, I could understand the obsession. She’s magnetic. Eyes wide enough to confuse you and understand you at the same time. Face sandy with freckles. You wouldn’t necessarily think twice about any one of her features, but put them together, and you couldn’t look away.
I pull a spray paint can from the plastic bag at my feet and rattle it back and forth. She’s still holding the plans. “It’s not exactly the best I’ve done,” I say, reaching for them.
She shakes her head twice, firmly. “No, it’s great. I’m just dying to see how everyone in town reacts is all. Should we get to marking?” She holds out one hand, open-palmed.
I pass the can to her. I show her where I’m picking things up, and we work together for a couple of hours. A few times, I correct her, but mostly we work in silence, just the hissing of the paint cans and the high whine of cicadas.
* * *
Once, just once, I almost got caught.
I’d woken up at 2:00 a.m. the night before our deadline, and the bed beside me was empty.
It wasn’t the first time Claire had gone missing. But she had never missed a pressing night before. My hands shook as I shuffled through the pile of papers under the bed, finally finding the circle plans. I held onto a tiny hope that she would be there at the field, all antsy, smirking at me.
But she wasn’t. It was just me and that wheat, barely lit by the moon.
We couldn’t miss the deadline. I worked all night, fumbling around, tearing the plan along its folds as I whipped it open over and over. I stumbled over the presser, tangled up in its ropes. I squinted toward my chosen center stalk, which looked just like all the others. The air was cold on my arms.
I’d barely finished crushing the last section when the sky lightened and the sun began to rise. I ran back up to my car, the pressers flung awkwardly across my back. And just as I’d slammed the trunk door, I saw him.
It was the gas station owner. I’d seen him the day before when I filled my tank, leaning back against the small brick building. He was watching me now, returning my nod without a word.
I struggled to catch my breath. Maybe he hadn’t seen. Together, we looked out at the field. It was hard not to wince at the crooked outlines, the messily crushed wheat. I’d missed a couple of stalks in the center, and they stood out like cowlicks. “Weird, huh?” I managed around the clench in my gut, pointing at the crop circle.
He didn’t say anything. Just glanced at me, then away.
Over the course of the morning, neighbors and friends collected along the side of the road as usual. But the whole time, he was there. And when his buddies started laughing, talking about all the theories they’d always held, he just studied me, saying nothing.
By the time Claire showed up, I knew my career was over. “Hey, Danny,” she said when she reached my side. “Sorry about that.” She slung one arm over my shoulders. “Looks like it came out great.”
The bile rose quickly in my throat. “What is wrong with you?” I hissed. “Are you crazy? I’m pretty sure that guy over there saw me. Do you understand what that means, or do I have to spell it out for you? Lionel’s going to find out, and then I’m screwed.”
Her eyes widened, two blue wounds. At first, I wanted to reel all the words back in, bring Claire back. It’s not her fault, I told myself. But I didn’t quite believe it. I got into my car and drove away.
All that day, in the grocery store, during our cover job, the whispers crawled over me like spiders. Every time I turned, no one was there. Eventually, I convinced myself the gas station owner hadn’t told anyone. Claire’s good spirits were working overtime, dragging at me. She handled Lionel’s check-in call, told him I was a champ, giggling softly as she told him about the one small bump in the road, nothing to be concerned about. By the end of the week, we’d moved on to a new farm in a new town. For weeks after that, I stayed awake every night, staring at the ceiling until I finally came up with my spray-painting method, the one that would allow me to work alone. Just in case.
* * *
The next few times I come by Sam’s farm, it’s the same: Nessa waiting on the porch, finger in a book, the other hand out for the plan so she can check our progress. Sometimes, she asks me questions that stick to me, pricking at the back of my mind while I set up the milking machine the next morning. How many of us are there? Are my parents lonely? Have any of my host families ever suspected? When she asks, my answers always seem incomplete, and all I want is the solidness of a folded-up sketch and my finger on the paint can.
And then, one night, when we’re sitting on the porch steps, she says, “How bad is my dad, anyway?”
I turn to her, but she’s staring out at the field. “I keep asking my mom,” she says to the mountains hunched on the horizon, “but she always brushes me off. She says she doesn’t want me to worry.”
“Did you call your brother?” I ask. She’s mentioned him a few times, the older brother who used to smirk when she snuck in past her curfew.
She snorts. “I doubt he knows anything. I’m pretty sure all they talk about now is the weather. He’s just as clueless as I am. They must’ve told you something when they hired you, right? Some sort of reason for all this.” She motions out at our work.
I remember sitting at Molly’s kitchen table, the chicken heavy in my stomach. How desperately she needed to tell someone, and for them to tell no one else.
“Please, I need to know.”
I swallow. “Yes, your mom told me. Stomach cancer. Apparently, it’s not good.” Her gaze could burn me, but when she looks away, back out into the field, it’s even worse.
“No. It’s not good.” Her shoulders slump. She picks a stray blade of grass off her knee. “Charlie said it was a miracle he pulled through the last time. And now…” She covers her face, and I fumble for something, anything, to say. But when she brings her hands back down, her eyes are dry. “So, that’s why. He’s been obsessed with changing this town, and he’s hoping this will—”
“Nessa? Is that you?” We both whip around to see Molly standing in the door, silhouetted against the kitchen. She pulls her nightgown closer when she sees me. “Hello, Daniel. I didn’t realize you were working tonight.”
Nessa stands, walks over to her. “Stomach?”
Molly freezes. Her eyes flit between Nessa’s face and my own. I shouldn’t have told Nessa. This is family business. I should’ve stayed out of it. Once again, Nessa’d managed to pry more out of me than I’d meant to give her.
Molly glances over her shoulder, but through the open door, we can all hear the faint sawing of Sam’s snores. She eases the door closed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you, Nessa.” She reaches out to smooth a stray hair from Nessa’s face, tucks it behind her ear. “The doctors say—Well, you know what the doctors say. They’ve said it all before. Your dad, he’s always been stronger than they think.” The brightness in her voice flickers like the porch light.
“But, I mean…” Nessa says, pulling at her hair, messing it. “Stomach? He barely made it through prostate.”
Something tightens around Molly’s mouth. “Yes, well. He’s beaten all the
others, hasn’t he?”
Nessa studies her for a moment, then draws Molly into her arms. “Oh, Mom.”
Chapter Nine
Nessa
I have no idea how to comfort my mother. She feels like a reed in my arms, thin and fragile. I scramble for the words she’s always used to calm or soothe, but all I can think is, He’s dying. Again.
I catch Daniel’s eye over her shuddering shoulder. He shifts around on the stair and reaches for the can of paint I’d left there. Though I know I should, I can’t do this alone.
“Here, come sit on the steps with us a minute,” I say. His eyes widen a little, but he puts out a hand to help her sit down next to him.
She surveys the porch behind us, sighs, and says, “I keep meaning to find new porch chairs now those old ones have broken.”
I laugh, because of course that’s what she’d say, and the sound is harsh in the night. Mom leans her head on my shoulder, barely touching me.
On the night before I left for college, I walked up to my parents’ closed door to ask what time we’d be leaving. I stopped short when I heard the rhythm of her murmurs. “Don’t cry, Sam,” she was saying. “Nessa will be just fine. She’ll be great. She’ll be perfect, I know it. Now, are you absolutely sure you put the last of her boxes in the car?”
I take her hand in mine and run my fingers over the veins mapped across the back of hers, counting the ways they branch. “Have you told Charlie?”
She pulls her hand away, holds the fingers up to her lips, and blows her breath out against them. I can tell she’s imagining a cigarette. “No.”
“Come on. You have to tell him.”
“You know how things are between the two of them. It’s never been the same since he left. And when I try to bring these things up with your brother, he just tries to diagnose him from clear across the country.”