Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  Walker’s jaw clenched, almost imperceptibly.

  “We don’t check all records, just the ones that need checking.”

  Miss Bertie’s voice was rising. “And how do you know when records need—”

  “Let’s get back to the matter at hand,” Surratt interjected. “Are there any more questions regarding the process we’ll follow in acclimating our new students?”

  “It seems like a fair plan to me,” Pastor Duke said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  “Not really, Pastor. We’ll leave it up to our staff. The kids will report to a resource room in the elementary school the first day of school. We’ll take it from there.”

  Theresa had spent much of the meeting writing notes on a yellow legal pad. Clearing her throat, she turned to Surratt.

  “Mr. Surratt, let’s go back to Miss Bertie’s question. How long will the process take?”

  Surratt tapped his pen on the table while he thought.

  “It’s hard to put a definite time on the process, Miss Traynor. Like I said, gauging a young person’s social skills takes time.”

  Theresa reached into a briefcase, pulling out a file of her own.

  “Here’s the paperwork for one student who will be enrolling. Her name is Tiffany Merchant. Her file was provided to you with the others.”

  Surratt dug through the stack of files, finally pulling one out.

  “Tiffany completed fifth grade last year, Theresa continued. “She was enrolled in two schools, one in Texas, the other in Nebraska.”

  Surratt scanned his copy of the file, nodding for Theresa to continue.

  “Tiffany earned grades of A and B in all academic subjects in her Texas fifth grade class. Then, after moving to Nebraska for the spring semester she earned straight A’s and was recognized by the school principal as her class’s outstanding citizen.”

  “Sounds like the young lady did well for herself,” Miss Bertie said.

  “It does indeed,” Theresa replied. “So, Mr. Surratt, how long do you think it will take to determine academic and social placement for a student like Tiffany?”

  Stress lines appeared around his eyes as Surratt studied the file. Ross Walker sat, stony-faced.

  “Again,” Surratt started haltingly, “I go back to my earlier comment. We don’t know the quality of the schools or teachers these kids had in the past. The last thing we want to do is rush the process and put a child in a situation where they’re likely to fail.”

  Theresa nodded. “The file also indicates that Tiffany completed state standardized tests in mathematics and language arts. Her scores ranked her in the top one-half of all students in the state.” She laid the file aside.

  “Pretty impressive academic record, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Surratt?”

  “Top half?” Walker’s tone left no doubt he was annoyed. “Any kid with grades like that should be in the top twenty percent easy.” Then speaking to Surratt, “Lowell, I’ve got five more minutes; wrap this up.”

  “Go ahead and leave; there’s no rule that says the school board president has to be here,” Miss Bertie snapped.

  Walker slapped his hand on the table and glowered at Miss Bertie. “No and there’s no rule that says a dried-up old schoolteacher and some out-of-town lawyer have to be here either.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Pastor Duke held up his hands. “We’re on the same team, folks.”

  “I don’t think so, Pastor,” Ross said angrily. “Lowell and me, we want what’s best for this school. These folks,” he waved at Miss Bertie, Theresa, and Chan, “want to tell us how to do our job.”

  Walker stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  Chan considered how long it had been since so many people last gathered on the grounds at Grebey Island Church. Groups of adults visited around picnic tables and lawn chairs under large shade trees. Barbeque, fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, and corn on the cob weighed down a weathered wooden table. A passel of boys played football nearby, while girls talked and giggled on the church steps. It was Harvester’s idea to gather the Grebey Island Migrants here.

  Three girls ran to meet Chan, Lani, and Ryan as they arrived. They introduced themselves and pulled Lani away to join the others. Chan noticed how well-mannered they were, and thought about the absurdity of Lowell Surratt’s comments about migrant children lacking socially.

  Duke Windsor, seated in a lawn chair next to a pretty blonde, waved him over. Ryan stayed close for a few steps, before getting other ideas.

  “Can I go over there?” he said, pointing to the football game. Chan agreed, and Ryan ran to join in.

  “Chan, this is my wife.” Duke stood as he approached. The woman extended her hand.

  “Linda Windsor, Chan. Call me Dutchie.”

  “A pleasure... Dutchie?”

  “Yeah”, she smiled. “I got the nickname after marrying Duke. People seemed to like calling us Duke and Dutchie Windsor, like the Royal family and all that. I’ve been Dutchie so long now that most folks don’t know my real name.”

  “We brought a couple extra chairs,” Duke said. “Join us.”

  Chan glanced around as he got seated. Miss Bertie was supervising two men tending a large barbeque grill. Harvester was seated at the end of crowded picnic table, chatting amiably. Across the gathering, among a circle of adults, he spotted Theresa. She was wearing tan shorts and a black blouse. Her hair was stirred by a breeze moving through the trees.

  “Pretty one, isn’t she?”

  Dutchie’s question startled Chan. He recovered, but not quick enough.

  “Uh... who?”

  “The one you’re looking at with your mouth hanging open,” Duke laughed. “Miss Theresa Traynor, Esquire.”

  Chan smiled shyly.

  The next ten minutes were spent getting acquainted with the Windsors. In their late forties, Duke and Dutchie seemed joined at the hip, often finishing each other’s sentences. They were country folk; witty, quick to laugh, and genuinely nice. They were born in West Texas, dated through high school, and married soon after. Their children were grown, and Dutchie was ready for grandkids.

  “If the market wouldn’t have bottomed out, I’d still be farming,” Duke said, going on to explain that it had taken the loss of his family farm to move him toward ministry. Lighthouse Church was his first assignment.

  The hubbub quieted when Harvester made his way to the center of the gathering.

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. As you know, there was a meeting today at the Adair School and I want to get your input on what’s best for our kids. First, though, we’re going to eat this delicious food. Duke, will you please ask God’s blessing on our gathering?”

  Duke stood and offered a short prayer of thanks, the amen barely out of his mouth before the boys stormed the buffet. Ryan was in their midst, carrying on with the others like they were old friends. Lani seemed to have connected with two girls, one about her age and the other a few years younger. They were whispering among themselves, sharing whatever secrets girls shared.

  Conversation flowed from all directions as hardworking farmers, their families, and guests tore into the spread. Chan visited with Duke and Dutchie, but kept an eye on Theresa, hoping she might make her way over. Other than a return trip to the food table, she stayed where she was. At one point Chan’s cellphone vibrated in his pocket, undoubtedly Richard Smoot. He had called earlier, but Chan let it go to voicemail.

  “What did you think of the meeting today?” Chan asked, juggling a plate of food on his lap.

  “I’m not sure what to think,” Duke said. “I understand where Lowell is coming from, but I have to wonder about his true intentions.”

  “What’s Ross Walker’s story? It’s not like Saxon County to elect someone to the school board unless they’ve lived here for twenty years.”

  Duke pressed his lips together. “Ross is an okay guy. Just a bit arrogant sometimes. He’s well-liked by a lot of the West End folks.”
<
br />   Chan’s phone vibrated again.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “My phone’s been buzzing nonstop.” He stepped away and hit voicemail.

  “Hi Chan, it’s Lacey Staton from Channel Thirty-Five in Louisville.”

  Uh-oh. Another job lost.

  “We were so sorry to hear that you won’t be pitching for the Bats anymore...”

  And hate to tell you that we won’t need you anymore, either.

  “… but thought you might be interested in a more permanent position with our news team.”

  What?

  “We’d like to offer you the weekend sports anchor position along with some field reporting during the week.”

  Lacey named a salary figure that would be more than enough to stay in Louisville.

  “If you’re interested, give me a call. We’d like you to start next week.”

  ###

  Harvester was speaking when he returned. He had played and replayed the message, almost afraid to believe the good news. Harvester’s words were background noise as he thought about what had to get done over the next few days.

  Going through his father’s personal papers.

  Saying farewell to Miss Bertie, Harvester, and the Windsors.

  Getting Theresa Traynor’s phone number.

  Oh yes, and doing something about the farm.

  Duke patted him on the arm, bringing him back to the moment.

  “Professor Stanley just asked you to come up.”

  Chan rose, irritated at himself for not listening. Harvester took his hand.

  “Most of you met Chan Manning at his daddy’s funeral. Chan is now the sole owner of Grebey Island, and I thought it best to have him share a few words.”

  Shaken by the sudden request, Chan took a moment to gather himself and form his remarks. Miss Bertie caught his eye, beaming as she had on graduation night. Theresa Traynor looked at him expectantly. The faces around him, black, brown, and white, were hopeful.

  Behind them, past the rows of trailers, he saw the Grebey Island School and thought of Mr. Meekins. Kind, gentle, Mr. Meekins.

  And he remembered the circumstances that had thrust them together.

  And he thought of the hard years that followed, right up to the moment when he looked back at the water tower on his way out of town.

  Reconciling the hopeful faces surrounding him with the reality he had experienced caused his stomach to churn. He knew he had to say something.

  They needed to know the truth, and he would give it to them.

  “The life of a migrant farmer is difficult, and I understand why you would seek refuge in a location that promises something more. Something better. Something permanent.

  “But beware, because Grebey Island is not that place.”

  There was a collective gasp. Miss Bertie looked alarmed. Harvester recoiled.

  “I grew up here. Yes, it is beautiful. Yes, the land is fertile. But I must warn you... the devil lives here.

  “Already you’ve experienced him.” Chan motioned to A.B. “One of your children was beaten because he’s black. Later he was arrested and almost sent to a juvenile facility, while the perpetrator went unpunished.

  “And Professor Stanley. He’s lost more than anyone because of this place. Friends, family members, his land. So much of what he dreamed of was taken from him.”

  They were silent, fear and anxiety etched on their faces. Theresa Traynor, on the other hand, was angry, sitting on the edge of her seat as if she might charge forward at any moment.

  “My parents named me Channing Earl Manning, but from third grade until the day I left Saxon County, most people called me Mutt. Do you know why?”

  Silence.

  “Because my mother was African American and my father was white.

  “Lowell Surratt, the man we met with this morning, called me retarded. He wouldn’t let me in school until pressure was applied by people at the state capital. Then, when things were at their worst for me, he did nothing.

  “Granted, I wasn’t completely alone.” Chan nodded at Miss Bertie. “That lady and her husband were my surrogate parents.”

  His lip started to quiver, but Chan forged ahead. “She even gave me money to fix the crooked teeth everyone else made fun of.

  “My point is, I wish only the best for you, but I’m scared the best won’t be good enough. You see, for every Professor Stanley in Saxon County, there are ten Bump Cannons. For every Miss Bertie there are fifteen Lowell Surratts. For every Pastor Duke, there are fifty Ross Walkers. And for every Theresa Traynor, a hundred Ricky Smoots.”

  He paused, trying to get his emotions in check. He thought he’d made it, but the sight of Lani and Ryan brought everything to the surface.

  The tears flowed. He considered fleeing. Instead, he fought through.

  “I have two children who I care about more than anything. I can’t risk them being damaged by the same environment that damaged me.” His shoulders heaved. Harvester placed a hand on his arm, but Chan shrugged it away.

  Let them see me. Let them see what this place did to me. That’s better than words.

  “We will be... leaving... for good this weekend. We won’t – can’t – come back to Saxon County. I won’t do it to myself, and I won’t do it to my children. As soon as I figure a way to rid myself of this island, my last tie to this God-forsaken place will be broken.”

  Motioning for Lani and Ryan to follow him, Chan walked to his car and drove away, leaving the silent gathering in the twilight.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  There was much to do, and at six-twenty Chan gave up on sleep and went to the kitchen. It was too early for phone calls, so he grabbed an apple and a glass of water and sat at the table.

  The rest of the evening had been awkward. Lani and Ryan, confused by what they’d witnessed, had little to say. They’d never seen him cry. Chan tried to appear more upbeat at bedtime, but they saw through the act.

  “We’re heading home soon,” he’d said as he tucked them in. He left out any mention of the job offer. He knew they had enjoyed their time here, but they hadn’t experienced the real Saxon County.

  One call he planned was to a CPA friend in Louisville. He wanted to know if he could simply refuse ownership of the island. Somehow, he suspected it wouldn’t be that easy. He had considered gifting the land to the new families, but knew from personal experience that gift taxes could be high. Few of the Grebey Island migrants had spare cash to cover them.

  Chan was surprised to see Duke Windsor’s pickup pull up. Probably wanting to pray with me, Chan thought. Watching him approach the back door, Chan saw how tired the pastor looked. He was unshaven, still wearing the clothes he’d had on at the picnic.

  “Got a minute to talk?” Duke’s stocky frame filled the door.

  “Come on in,”

  “So how did you enjoy the barbeque?” When his attempt at humor fell flat, Duke forged ahead.

  “Your testimony touched a lot of people last night.”

  “Testimony?”

  “Yeah,” Duke said. “Do you know how rare it is to hear people share the things that hurt them? People walk into church every Sunday who are hurt, angry, or broken-hearted, yet they smile and act like everything’s good.”

  Chan shook his head. “I can’t explain it. I hadn’t planned to go off like that. I saw all those hopeful faces, standing on soil they thought of as their oasis, but that I knew for certain was Death Valley.”

  “Things can change, Chan.”

  “Can they? Since I’ve been back, I’ve seen too much of the same old stuff.”

  “A lot of folks are hoping you’re wrong.”

  “For their sake, I hope so too.”

  “I really wish you’d stay. Lani and Ryan seem to have fallen in love with the area. It could be a fresh start. You could—”

  “Duke, why are you trying so hard to keep us here?” Chan’s tone was sharper than he intended. Duke looked as if he’d been stung.

  “Well, if that’s how you fe
el, I won’t try to stop you.” Duke coughed. “I know you have an offer from Richard Smoot, a pretty lucrative one if what I heard is right.”

  “I’m not selling to Smoot. I don’t trust him. I suspect he’s part of The Covenant.”

  Duke seemed surprised. “I know his son’s had problems, but—”

  “My land, my prerogative, Duke. I think he and his invisible partners would kick the migrants off the land before the sun went down. After looking into their faces last night, I can’t be a party to that, even indirectly.”

  “Well, I can’t disagree with that. I appreciate you looking out for their best interests, and I might have an idea that will help.”

  “Help how?”

  “Relieve you of the land. Let you get back to Kentucky.”

  Now Chan was interested.

  “Tell me.”

  The idea was brilliant, so brilliant that Chan couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it. Pastor Duke under the direction of the Lighthouse Church leadership, would assume ownership of the farm. Guardianship was the actual word he used. Harvester would serve as a liaison, making sure the new families met their end of the agreement until the land became theirs. No tax issues for the migrants. No need for Chan to ever return.

  The only issue was price. Duke indicated the church wouldn’t be able to pay anything out of pocket, as they would only hold the land until it passed to its new owners. Chan had hoped to benefit financially to some degree, maybe just enough to set up college funds for the kids. If he accepted Duke’s offer, that wouldn’t happen, but at least he could wash his hands of Saxon County without worrying about the migrants.

  “Have you talked to Harvester?” Chan asked.

  “Let’s go see him together.”

  ###

  Harvester wasn’t enthused.

  “It seems... awkward,” he said, as they sat on the front porch of his house. “Dealing directly with your father made the process simple. I’d hate to lose that.”