Stories About Corn

by Ri, Xesin

Hilary could hear Mrs. Went working in the kitchen, trying to find something among drawers of silverware, kitchen utensils, utility tools, matches, pots, pans, trays and glassware.

  Paul emerged from the kitchen as if his mother had silently sent him out to put on a strong face in front of the girls. Paul didn’t say anything when the girls looked up at him from the little wooden bench that faced the front door. His eyes wandered up at the ceiling as if he were inspecting the ceiling for stains. He seemed to want to be quite sure the house was sturdy enough for them to be inside due to the awesomeness of the disaster that had befallen his family.

  Hilary knew it was wrong, but she could only think of one thing as she sat there. She thought of a green suede jacket she’d first imagined a few months ago. One night, she was looking through her fashion magazines, paging through the new fall styles, when she saw a shade of green she’d never seen before. It was the force behind a beautiful dress worn by an older girl, a Hollywood starlet of sixteen. When she’d been shopping with her mom and Ellena, she’d seen this perfect gorgeous green again. She’d held back her eagerness with all her might and pointed at something else on the mannequin, other than the prefect-green jacket, just in case her mom might try and talk her out of it. Her mother didn’t care for the skirt or the top the mannequin wore, but she did love the super green jacket. Hilary told her mom she loved the jacket too. She told Ellena about that jacket. She told Jessica about it that night too. She told everyone she knew. She dreamed of it at night. She told her dad. And he said, “If you work this summer then I’ll match what you make. That should be enough money for it.”

  No money. No jacket.

  Now, Hilary had this recurring event in her head of another girl getting the jacket, wearing the jacket, and smiling, smiling, smiling all the time.

  “Jo!” yelled a male voice. “Jo! Jo! Where are you?”

  Mr. Went came running down the stairs. He paused in confusion when he saw the girls.

  Hilary pointed to the kitchen

  “Jo!” he yelled again.

  “I’m in here, Martin!” yelled Mrs. Went from the kitchen just as he entered.

  The girls could hear everything.

  “I was upstairs, out on the walk, looking over the fields. There’s fire.”

  “Where?” said Mrs. Went seeming to calm for this next mile of today’s marathon.

  “Out in the h. h. field. Call the fire department. Paul, come with me. Hazel, go get the hose and wet down the yard.”

  Martin ran through the front door with Paul following close behind.

  Hilary, Ellena and Jessica stood up and ran out onto the porch to see.

  Martin and Paul got shovels and other tools. Mr. Went and the boy jumped into the pick-up truck and blasted off towards the source of black smoke that was rising and growing up from beyond the yard, over the tops of the green corn and even the Swath itself.

  There was a loud popping noise coming from over that way. Rus barked and barked at the smoke like it was a predator that could hear him. Mrs. Went was explaining the problem to the fire department like she was reading a part in a script, the one for calm-headed lady.

  Hazel came out of the house, crossed the porch, moving past the frozen girls, and started doing what her dad told her to do. She poured a lot of water on the flowers and a little garden by the walkway first. Then she began spraying the yard, starting out near the edge nearest the smoke.

  Mr. Fish burst out of the cornfields sweating and panting.

  He ran up to the girls with his hat in his hand.

  “What’s happening?” he asked them. “It sounds like someone’s shooting.”

  The cracks and pops of the burning h. h. corn were growing louder for sure like a little pistol being fired randomly and sporadically by someone feeling a little too good after a little too much whiskey.

  “The h. h. corn is on fire,” said Ellena.

  “I thought they said that couldn’t happen?” said Mr. Fish.

  “I guess it can,” said Ellena.

  Hilary rubbed her elbow. “Should we do something?” she said without looking away from the growing disaster.

  “I don’t know,” said Ellena.

  The area burning was doubling and doubling in size. Hazel drenched the yard, the woodpile, Rus’s pen and on and on. Mrs. Went was moving things around in a noisy haste inside the house. Jessica ran back in to help her.

  “Maybe we should leave?” said Mr. Fish to Ellena and Hilary as he sat down on the porch steps.

  More people came out of the fields as the smoke billowed blacker and thicker overhead.

  “Who was driving that truck?” asked an older boy, angrily.

  “Mr. Went,” replied Ellena.

  Hazel kept on spraying with the hose.

  Mrs. Went and Jessica were working together it seemed because of how much quieter the sounds were from inside. Then Mrs. Went ran out to the garage with an armful of boxes and clothes.

  The older boy, who’d asked about the truck, looked at everyone. He loudly spoke to everyone who was just waiting around, “We need to get to the road and walk away. Get up wind and away from it.”

  He started walking.

  Most everyone followed him. Not knowing what to do or how to help the Wents, it made sense to get away, and let those who might know what to do do what they do.

  Jessica sat a group of boxes on the porch and then quickly disappeared back into the house.

  The pick-up came speeding back. The grill was full of h. h. corn debris. Dark green, nearly black, leaves and stalks along with little brown or black cobs were stuck all across the bright chrome.

  “Paul,” said Mr. Went as he got out of his truck. “Get the other hose and spray down the outside of the house. Bathe it! Spray down the wood pile too, the barn, the grass between. Make sure it is all dripping wet.”

  Martin walked past Hilary and Ellena going back into his home in a hurry. “Jo!” he yelled.

  Hilary and Ellena looked after Mr. Went as he ran up the stairs. Jessica saw them and urged them to come inside.

  “Follow me,” said Jessica as they hurried up the stairs.

  The three girls went up to the second level.

  Upon the walls of the stairs were family pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Went on their wedding day, along with pictures of Paul, Hazel, Tina, and older sister Megan on birthdays, school sporting events, baptisms, and so many other cherished memories.

  Jo looked for something in a closet. Martin was out on the walk.

  The three joined Mr. Went out on the walk. He looked at them when they stood next to him.

  “See there,” he pointed at two fire trucks. One of them was making its way to the Went house while the other turned and paused before continuing onto the Swath like an animal made nervous by fire. “Watch now,” said Mr. Went. The truck pulled back and then started back towards town. “And here we are,” pointed Mr. Went at an SUV traveling toward the house at high speed. “They’re coming to tell me that my house is the priority because there is nothing they can do now for my h. h. crop. They will tell me that they just have to let it burn itself out. Every last piece of h. h. will be nothing but blackened ash. The EPA has banned me from growing. This was my last crop that could be sold this year since I can’t sell anything that might be food. Then a five year ban on everything—at least. No subsidies or loans will be approved for farmers that have or are growing high hydrocarbon corn. We are polluters. I would have to get permission to grow anything, and permissions have been suspended indefinitely.”

  Mr. Went rested his head on his hands on the banister of the walk overlooking the Went family farm.

  “This was my grandfather’s farm and my father’s farm. It was supposed to be my son’s farm too.”

  “Martin,” said Jo, “I think the fire marshal is here.”

  “What speed,” said Martin, “my Indiana state tax dollars at work.”

  Hilary couldn’t take her eyes from the spectacle. The billowing smoke rose over acres and ac
res. Little bits of ember and ash were beginning to fall from the sky like ugly snow. It wasn’t her home. It wasn’t her family. It was something to behold. Her lost jacket; their lost home.

  “Why would God let this happen?” asked Jessica speaking to Martin. “It isn’t fair.”

  Mr. Went lifted his head and looked out over his fields. “This isn’t God’s fault. God set up a world for us to live in, to be free in. A world for us to have and own and live off of. God didn’t do this—men did, maybe some women too. Girls like my girls, boys like my own son who grew up and did all this. Took my family’s farm. Created a new fuel; another new corn. Promised it was safe and difficult to burn until processed. Ruined my land. Ruined my family, and ruined me. People did this. This is not God’s fault. I wanted more money. I was doing fine. Greed, I suppose. Want, perhaps. I just didn’t want to let anyone down.”

  “Martin,” said Jo again, “We really should get down there.”

  Martin slid down onto his knees and sighed. “I guess we should. They’ll want to tell us all about how they’re going to let the crop burn and whether or not we’ll be responsible for any cleanup costs or emergency costs.”

  Martin jumped up. “Did everyone make it out of the fields?”

  “I think so,” said Jo. “I don’t know. There were a lot of people out there. I didn’t count. I don’t know if anybody counted.”

  Martin looked out over the fields.

  “Jo, you and these girls stay here and look out there for anyone in distress. I don’t think the fire is going to reach us. I’ll run down and talk to the fire marshal. Don’t stay up here if there’s any danger. We may have to abandon the house yet if things turn too bad.”

  Martin hurried down the stairs.

  Jo turned almost immediately and went inside too.

  “Mrs. Went,” called out Jessica following Jo back into the house.

  Ellena was looking intently down the rows and rows of corn to see if anyone was still out working. Hilary looked too as they walked around the house’s high walk.

  Hilary could see Hazel and Paul walking around the yard spraying anything that might burn. “This is dark. This is so dark and terrible,” said Hilary, but she kept thinking of that other smiling girl getting that perfect green jacket.

  “Nobody was hurt,” said Ellena, not taking her eyes off the fields.

  “But, I ‘m a terrible person. I was going to use the money to buy a jacket, and it’s why I’m sad. I’m self-centered and terrible and awful.”

  Ellena stopped looking out at the fields and looked to her friend instead. “Hilary, you cried over my dead goldfish. You cried when Jessica’s cat was gone for a little too long. You’re just too shocked to be sad yet. This is just too big.”

  Ellena kept looking for anyone in distress. Hilary looked too.

  “Do you think they’ll really lose their farm?”

  “It sounds pretty bad,” said Ellena.

  Mr. Went was off now talking to the fire marshal about halfway to the road.

  The fire truck had pulled up the drive, about halfway too. A few of the firemen got off and got some tools ready. Ellena noticed one fireman with an ax like she’d seen so many times on the news. Another fireman got onto the top of the fire truck to stand and see the now visible flames under the dark cloud of smoke.

  “What a bad day!” said Ellena.

  “I know. Here we were hopping and skipping, and now, we’re on lookout for people maybe trapped by a fire.”

  “Yeah,” said Ellena.

  “How does it look?” asked Mrs. Went returning to the walk.

  “Good,” said Ellena, “I mean, I don’t think there’s anybody in the cornfields. Just so long as they stayed out of the h. h. cornfield they probably either made it to the house or the Swath or the road.”

  “Good, good,” said Jo trying to be upbeat. “You girls all have your own phones?”

  They nodded that they did.

  “Then you should call your parents. Your mothers and fathers must be worried by now. You should let them know you’re alright.”

  “I already did,” said Jessica. “I texted my mom. I texted all our moms, actually.”

  “Thanks,” said Hilary.

  “My mom’s already on her way,” said Jessica.

  “Your mom is coming here?” asked Hilary.

  “Yeah, we gotta get down there and meet her at the road,” said Jessica.

  “What about helping Mrs. Went?” asked Ellena.

  “We’ll be fine. The fire department is here, and I don’t think there is anyone left in the fields. You girls have been a great help, but you need to go on home to your own mothers. I’m sure they’re worried; I know I would be.”

  Jessica gave Mrs. Went a big hug. “I am so sorry. I’m going to tell my mom everything, and I promise we’re going to help you guys somehow.”

  Hilary and Ellena nodded and agreed trying to reassure Mrs. Went that no-matter-what the Went family would not be forgotten.

  “Go on, you three, go on.”

  Hilary started to go. She dropped her head still feeling bad. Ellena saw Hilary’s sadness and followed her down the stairs. She wrapped an arm around her friend and held onto her as they walked out of the house and down the porch steps. Hazel went in, and a moment later, Paul followed. They emerged at the top of the house, on the walk, hugging and holding their mom. After a few moments, Jessica came out the front door. She quickly caught up to her friends and put her arms around Hilary, not knowing why; and they three walked down the driveway, between the newly wet grass still shimmering on each side of the drive, in the heat of the early morning sunshine, down to the road where Jessica’s mom was already fast approaching.

  The maroon Dodge minivan stopped.

  People still stood on the road. They ignored the car. They stared up at the tall dark column of smoke that dominated the land and the sky. Ash fell around them, embers too. Jessica’s mom got out and for a moment was mesmerized like the rest of them.

  “Mom,” said Jessica letting go of her friends and then latching onto her mother like she would never let her go.

  “I am so glad you are okay,” said Jessica’s mom who kissed her daughter’s head over and over. “C’mon, let’s get you three home.”

  “They might need more help,” said Jessica.

  “For now, let the police and firemen figure it out. We’ll call later and offer all the help we can give. But, for now, let’s get home and get you girls safe. All this ash and smoke isn’t good for anyone. Let’s go home,” said Jessica’s mother, looking at her daughter, trying to convey the danger and fear she felt. And Jessica felt it, and she understood it.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Hilary and Ellena were quick to get into the car.

  Jessica’s mom had to really work to get her daughter to finally settle into the front passenger seat.

  Jessica’s mom started backing up and then made a U-turn away from the smoke.

  The girls all looked out the back window at the black column, Mr. Went talking to the firemen protecting his house, Mrs. Went and her twins looking out over the fields, the road behind them, and the other detasselers walking home from work without a day’s pay. Long faces and shortening shadows were there too as the sun continued to rise and impacted the girls in a way that would be remembered long after they had turned around in their seats to face the road ahead. No doubt lay in their hearts that the images of the morning would linger for a long time.

  Ellena turned her head to the right and looked out her window. “I forgot my lunch.”

  Sitting next to Ellena, in the backseat, Hilary turned her head to the left and looked out her window and said, “My arm is bruised. I think I’d better ice it when I get home.”

  And Jessica and her mom stared ahead, and everyone in the car was silent letting the morning fade back a little from them now.

  The column got smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

  Late-August

  She’s Not
Tentative

  Mrs. Loretta Dean—or—Raewyn Alistair—or—how many other names referring to the tall woman who stepped off a bus in a small eastern Illinois town, one early afternoon, found that she’d made a great and complicated loop from a place she once despised, even ran from in fear, only to return there, seeking safety. The suburbs and hub-bub of Chicago were just a couple of hours away. Indiana’s border was just a short car ride from here. And, over these last scattering days, she had driven to Indianapolis, taken a train back to Terre Haute, and then went to Peoria, trying to take her time along the way, trying to avoid the look of running. In Peoria, she hung out a bit and then, after a while, after a few nervous days, bought a bus ticket, got on a bus, and had finally gone back home.

  This was home, her real home, or at least as much as she liked to try and believe it was home. But it felt good, better than a million other homes she’d tried to name home. So far away from some of her best friends and happiest days, she was back here again. This was where her stepfather lived. This was where her longest lasting job had been. No one, despite these things, she assured herself, would think to look for her here if they knew her real name and history. They would have to know so very, very much. And she couldn’t remember a soul, other than her mother, her stepfather, and her stepsister, who lived in this town then and who still lived here now who might remember her. There was no one, except for—by now, she thought, he must have forgotten her and moved on—there was no one who would remember her here. She would have months to lay low as she decided what to do next with her time.

  Knowing that this small town was the safest place in the world for her, knowing that she didn’t really know anyone and that her stepfather understood better than anyone how to keep a secret, she walked towards her stepfather’s house without hesitance. She was a whistleblower. It was still possible to get killed over something that seemed so stupid, but people had been killed for far less than anything she had done to the liars in the high hydrocarbon corn con.

  As she walked, she tried to know what to look for. Men were more likely than women but assuming women weren’t tied in could get her killed.