Weekends in Carolina

by Jennifer Lohmann

  Gravel crunched as she took steps in her heavy boots. Ashes’s darting about made the little rocks skitter. None of the noises drowned out the irritation that had welled up over her fear. Why couldn’t Trey think of his mother and what her dream for the farm had been instead of concentrating on Hank and his drunkenness? Or at the very least Trey could have come down to the farm once and seen his father sober. Hank had still been an asshole, but he’d been trying to make amends for the mistakes of his life.

  Kelly was still at the farmhouse when she returned, waiting in the kitchen for her with a cup of tea. “Despite me fancying boys and Trey fancying girls, my brother was always the dramatic one.”

  Ashes sank down next to the heater, the bouts of youth he’d displayed outside gone for the night. Max took Kelly’s unsaid apology along with the cup of tea. The mug was warm, burning the cold skin on her hands through the crockery. She welcomed the pain because tingles were a sign her hands would defrost and her fingers would soon not be numb. She shouldn’t have gotten into Trey’s car without gloves and a coat, but she hadn’t expected to have to walk back to the farmhouse. Tonight’s temperatures would be bitter and there’d be frost in the morning.

  Kelly waited while she sipped her tea. The burn slid down her throat until it lit a fire in her belly and she was pissed. Pissed at Hank for squirreling away the will, pissed at Trey for his hatred of the land and pissed at herself for not taking better care of her future.

  She doubted Trey would accept an offer to buy the land tomorrow, even if she could make one. There were too many strikes against her. He wanted the memory of the Harris farm blasted from the earth and buried under housing.

  But she wasn’t going down without a fight. Asking Kelly to contest the will and trying to show Trey what the land really meant were only the first shots fired. Trey had control of the land, but she was the one standing on it, and that had to count for something. Possession was nine-tenths of the law, as the saying went.

  When the tea and the heat had warmed her, she asked Kelly the question she’d wondered as she’d walked home. “Why don’t you share the same level of hate for the land as your brother?”

  He shrugged. “Once puberty hit, the secret of my gayness wasn’t so secret anymore. My dad caught me with a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition—but it wasn’t the actual swimsuit edition, and I was... Well, I was only interested in the pictures of male swimmers and divers.” His voice got nostalgic and Max smiled. “Anyway, after that moment Dad made it clear I wasn’t going to get any piece of the farm.”

  Kelly paused to pour more hot water into his cup and held out the kettle for Max. She shook her head, more interested in understanding the Harris family than in more tea.

  “So I never got the chance to care or hope for something better out of this piece of land. Dad would always be disappointed in my choices. He would always find failure with me. I was always going to be the gay son. High school was hard, but home life was relatively easy because Dad ignored me. I knew I would never hear praise from his mouth, so the scorn hurt less.” Kelly took a long slurp of his tea and Max was wondering if he was done with his story when he continued.

  “It was different for Trey. Dad promised Trey things. Like if Trey spent a summer learning farming from Uncle Garner, Dad would quit drinking. If Trey made the football team, Dad would quit drinking. If Trey went to State for college instead of Carolina, Dad would quit drinking. The promise of approval was always there, but the actuality of it was further away for Trey than it probably was even for me.”

  “Different expectations of Hank.” Kelly and Trey’s father had been a different person during Max’s years on the farm, but not a completely different person. He could be mean, spiteful and judgmental. He’d even tried to withhold his approval of her farming methods until it became clear to both of them that he was an ignorant fool about farming anything but tobacco. And unless they went back in time to farm tobacco in the 1960s, he probably didn’t know anything about that, either.

  But those bad qualities had always been tempered by a work ethic, a pleasure in seeing the land rise from the dead and a curiosity about the new breed of small farmer.

  Alcohol would certainly kill all of Hank’s good qualities, leaving him only the bad with which to torture his sons.

  “We had different expectations of our father and he had different expectations of us.” Kelly’s eyes were sad as he said the words, mourning a lost childhood that could never be recovered.

  Max digested what Kelly had said, especially in light of the relationship Kelly had had with his father before Hank’s death and Trey’s complete absence. “Knowing what I know about Hank sober, it’s hard for me to believe life for you in this house was easier than it was for Trey.”

  “Being ignored left its own scars. I spent my college years pretending I was an escaped stereotype from San Francisco in the 1970s.” Kelly shrugged. “Later, the novelty of hearing from Dad meant I was more willing to take his phone call. I guess we fit perfectly into the roles assigned us. The ignored kid runs back at the slightest hint of attention from the father figure, while the kid on whom all attention was paid turns a deaf ear to the ringing phone.”

  Max considered her mostly happy childhood. Her parents had divorced when she was in middle school. She’d stayed with her dad and she liked her stepmother okay, but her mom had also been around and taken an active part in her childhood. Her father was disappointed that she hadn’t taken the path he’d chosen for her, but he wasn’t angry. No one was an alcoholic and she wasn’t in competition with her brother for attention. She should call them and thank them for being normal. And despite her anger at Trey, learning about his childhood gave her more respect and understanding for the man he was now.

  “Do you think Trey would sell me the land if I asked?” The man Kelly described didn’t give her much hope.

  Kelly shook his head. “I don’t know, honestly. There’s more going on under his fancy clothes than just his anger at our father. He’s jealous of you.”

  His words surprised Max enough that she had to catch her cup before it fell after setting it too close to the edge of the counter. By the time “Why would he be jealous?” left her mouth, she had her answer. “He’s mad because Hank made promises to me, and at least made the attempt at keeping them.” If he’d really kept his promise, the Harris brothers wouldn’t be looking for the will, but Hank had probably come closer to keeping a promise to her than he’d ever come to keeping his word to Trey.

  “Yes. I doubt you can offer him enough money to make up for Dad being a better father to you than he was to his own kids.”

  The truth of the words pushed Max against the counter, the edge digging into her back.

  “I don’t mean to discourage you,” Kelly said, “and I’m happy to help convince him, but I don’t know if it’s possible. Trey and I were always jealous of what the other got from our father and we were never really able to be friends. My words might not have much effect.”

  She nodded, because really, what else could she do? “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  “No. I have a date tonight.” Kelly gave her a wry smile. “Always on the hunt for love.”

  “I hope you find it.”

  Despite the seeming hopelessness of the situation, Max skipped dinner in favor of opening her laptop and making calculations about her finances. She had to believe that Trey could make the right decision.

  * * *

  MAX WAS WAITING for Trey when he drove up, Ashes at her side. Her dog could always read her mood, and he didn’t greet Trey with a wag of his tail, but neither did he growl. They were both nervous and didn’t want to piss off an already angry man.

  “I’m sorry for driving off in anger,” he said, by way of greeting, his hand out in offering.

  “Um, good morning.” She didn’t tell him it wasn’t a big deal, even though sh
e was perfectly capable of walking around the farm in the dark. Trey had talked enough about his mother’s views on how a gentleman treated a lady that she knew driving off had been a big deal to him. She slipped her hand in his. He had nice hands. With few calluses, they were the hands of a banker or a lawyer, but he had a firm grip that tingled her toes. “Apology accepted.” She pulled her hand away before his touch overwhelmed her senses.

  “I’m glad you’re out waiting for me, though I didn’t expect you to be.”

  “After last night? I’m not a sulker.” He blinked, but otherwise didn’t respond. “Besides, I have a question for you.” After she’d gone over her finances and decided it would be possible, she’d debated how to approach Trey with her proposal. Eventually, she’d decided it would be better to ask early in the morning, before she lost her courage. “Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.” His manner was open and curious, so Max upped the odds of her success a bit.

  Once in the kitchen, she poured him a cup. He turned down milk and sugar. As he sat, his dark eyes scanned the financial calculations on the table. He didn’t say a word, just watched her with a steady gaze as she sat down.

  “If you want to sell the farm, let me be the one to buy it from you.”

  “Do you have the money?”

  This was the sticking point. “No. In three years I will. That’s why Hank was going to add in the condition of the lease to his will, because I’ve always planned to buy the farm. I just need that extra time.”

  Mentioning Hank and his promises was a strategic error on her part. His face darkened to match his eyes and the curiosity was gone. “Your offer today is no different from what you said last night. I don’t want to sell the farm in three years. I want to sell it now.”

  “We can write the lease so that I either buy the farm in three years or lose it to someone else. It will be sold in all but actuality.”

  “No.” The word was frosty, like the tips of the grasses outside her kitchen window.

  “If you’re worried I won’t be able to afford the land in three years, I have the figures here on the table.”

  Max watched the muscles of Trey’s throat move as he drained the entire cup of coffee then looked at her with a sour face. “I’m not sure I can make this clearer. I want the land out of my hands. If you can make me the same offer as the developer, I’ll take it. Otherwise, I’m selling. Even if we find the will, I’ll pay whatever it costs to break the lease. I didn’t want this land yesterday. I’m not going to want this land tomorrow and I sure as hell don’t still want to be holding on to it in three years.”

  “Even if we...” Trey’s words hung in midair for several seconds before crashing, like Wile E. Coyote dropping off a cliff, only not funny. The farm was gone. All her work washed away in the torrent of his anger.

  Five years ago, she’d agreed to move across the country to farm land sight unseen, and her worst-case scenario was now her reality.

  Max took a drink of coffee, but the acid burned down her stomach until she was afraid she would vomit. She looked across the table at Trey, part of her thinking it would serve him right if she ralphed her breakfast on his shiny shoes, part of her worried about showing weakness in front of him.

  He sat there looking at her as if he hadn’t just jerked the rug out from under her after backing her up to the edge of a cliff. The slight scruff of his beard she’d found attractive over Hank’s funeral now looked like the dark smoke of the devil, but calling him the devil gave him more power than he had. Max gritted her teeth at the truth. Under his collared shirt and sweater vest was an angry little boy who’d never forgive Hank for being a terrible father.

  It took Kelly opening the door and walking into the kitchen for Max to realize the pounding hadn’t been in her head but footsteps on the back porch. “Oh, good, coffee’s made. I’d like a cup before we continue looking for the will.”

  She only had the energy to nod at Kelly before tossing her mug into the sink and calling for Ashes. Working the ground would be the only solace she’d find right now, even if the land wouldn’t be hers after December.

  * * *

  TREY WATCHED MAX storm out of the kitchen, her shoulder blades sharp against the thin cotton of her T-shirt as she rolled her shoulders against the truth. Better to be honest with her. Promising to care about what the new, probably nonexistent, will said would only make the truth hurt more later. Much like “I’ll quit drinking,” saying “I’ll think about selling you the farm” would be offering a promise he never intended to keep.

  The cabinet door banged shut and Trey turned to see Kelly pour himself a cup of coffee. His brother hadn’t bothered to knock on the back door but had walked in like he owned the place. Trey thought back to yesterday, when Kelly had also been comfortable in the house. Maybe not like an owner, but like an old family friend. Which was odd, because he’d never been comfortable in the house when they were kids. Neither of them had, but while Trey escaped to the fields to avoid tirades, Kelly had lurked around the rooms in corners, like a dog expecting to be kicked. Trey didn’t know what was more tragic—that Kelly would have taken a strike from their father if it meant he got attention or that their father couldn’t even find his son worthy of abuse.

  Steam rose from Kelly’s coffee cup, swirling around his brother’s face before disappearing into the cold kitchen air. “What’s up with you and Max?” Trey knew it was stupid to ask, stupid to be jealous of Kelly, especially as Trey would never mean more to Max than the man who ripped her land away from her. But he asked anyway.

  “Gay men can’t have female friends?”

  Trey ran his hand over the back of his neck before saying “That’s not what I meant.” Which was true. But if Kelly had asked him what he meant, Trey wouldn’t have had an answer. All he knew was that for the rest of the year, Kelly would get to spend time with Max while Trey was busy selling her hard work to a developer from two hundred and fifty miles away.

  “Never mind.”

  Kelly made a face as he took a sip. “It’s a wonder Max has any taste buds left. She makes terrible coffee.” When he drained the last of his coffee, he shook his head as if he needed the extra help to get the beverage down. “Are you ready to go find the will?”

  No, but he didn’t say that. Trey would rather be with Max, even if she contemplated his death the entire time they spent together. But they needed to either find the will or determine to Kelly’s satisfaction that it no longer existed. And Trey wanted to do that as quickly as possible.

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  BY FOUR O’CLOCK they’d been through every box in the attic and had not found a will. His father had apparently boxed up and saved all his Playboy magazines and they’d found letters from long-dead relatives his mother must have kept, but the single document they sought was nowhere to be found.

  Trey sat back on his heels and rubbed his face, wishing he’d shaved this morning. All this crap belonged to him and he wouldn’t be able to sell the land until he cleaned it out. The developer wasn’t Max; he couldn’t leave the stuff in boxes in the attic for the magical time in the future when he was ready to deal with it.

  “Do you want any of this stuff before I finalize the sale?” he asked Kelly.

  “You’re still going through with it?”

  “You can only contest the will so long as it’s reasonable to think a new one might be stashed somewhere.” Trey gestured to the boxes, some still open, scattered around the attic. “I’ll even grant you that Dad made a new will, but he didn’t stash it anywhere. He probably tore it up during some drunken rage.”

  “Dad had quit drinking.”

  “That’s what he claims, but hitting a tree in daylight on a road he’d driven at least twice a day since he was tall enough to reach the pedals? You can’t tell me he was sober.”

 
; Kelly looked at Trey like he was the confused one, not Kelly. “He wasn’t drunk. Dad had a heart attack.”

  Aunt Lois had said the same thing when she’d called Trey to tell him his father was dead. “Not you, too. The man’s dead. We don’t have to tiptoe around his pride anymore.” Trey’s laugh was hollow.

  “Dad stopped drinking when Mom got sick.”

  Trey laughed harder, the air coming out of his throat in painful gasps. During their mom’s illness, he’d also believed their father when he said he was sober. The constant smog of stale booze that had surrounded his old man for as long as Trey could remember was gone and his father’s face had lost some of its fleshy redness. But...

  Trey had to wait until he’d gotten control over his guffaws before he could speak again. “He was drunk at Mom’s funeral.” He took a deep breath. “It’s nice that Dad died in a car accident so we don’t have to pretend it wasn’t liver failure, but he broke that promise again. And had so little respect for Mom that he broke it at her funeral.”

  The second round of the laughter wedged in his throat at the pity on Kelly’s face.

  “Maybe it’s easier to cleave yourself from this land if you hold on to lies, but do you think I could stand coming around the farm if Dad was still a drunk? It took him thirty years, but he kept this one promise.”

  The stale air of the attic bore down on his shoulders. Before he suffocated, Trey stood and went downstairs. Back in the woods, nature having almost taken over, were the falling-down shacks laborers had used before he was born. Trey had hidden from his father’s lies in those houses all through his childhood. Feeling like he was nine years old again when he still believed in miracles, he left the farmhouse for the shacks and whatever black widows lurked inside them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MAX ADDED HORSE manure from a nearby stable into one of her compost windrows, even though this windrow wouldn’t be ready for use before she had to leave the farm. She backed her tractor up and added another scoop of manure, noting on her clipboard which pile she was adding it to and how much of it she was adding. Habit more than anything else kept her noting how many turns she gave each pile and checking the number of turns against the National Organic Program stipulations and her recipe. No one would be on this farm to use the tended compost. The developer wouldn’t care that she’d managed the compost heaps with the same amount of attention a vintner gives his wine; he’d see piles of rotting shit and do away with it.