The Last Harvest

by Kim Liggett

  Save me.

  12

  I KILL the wheat. Ten acres in eight hours. A new record for me. My body aches; it’s tough just prying myself out of the combine. I can hardly keep my eyes open, but that’s the way I want it. I might work myself to death, but at least I’ll be sane.

  As I drag myself up the rickety front steps, Noodle opens the door. “We ate without you,” she says as she takes my jacket and hat, hanging them up. “Just like you asked, but it wasn’t near as much fun. Jess sat there like a lump, didn’t say a word.” Noodle pulls out her sticker bag. “Tell me when,” she says and starts to place them one at a time on the board, counting out loud as she goes.

  She looks up at me with wide eyes when we make it past five, and when we pass eight, she’s grinning so hard I think she might explode.

  I finally call out “when” at ten and she drops the sticker bag and runs over to me, squeezing me exactly thirty-four times. One squeeze for each remaining acre. “We’re almost there.”

  “I just hope the frost will hold off a few more days.”

  “It will. It has to.”

  “Clay?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “I’ve got a plate for you. Special treat.”

  Noodle takes my hand and skips me into the kitchen. It smells amazing, like charcoal and salt and spices.

  “Go on, sit down.” Mom bullies me into my chair. Guess it was a triumph to get her to eat without me. Now, I just have to work on getting her to let me fix my own plate.

  Noodle hops around the table, still beaming from our victory. Mom pulls the plate from the oven and presents it to me.

  My stomach drops.

  “We’ve got a baked potato loaded with butter and bacon bits and those green beans with the little slivers of almonds, just like you like,” she says eagerly.

  But all I can see is the big-ass steak in the center of my plate, red juice leaking from the bottom, infecting everything around it. My mind goes back to the breeding barn—my dad surrounded by calf fetuses. Ali pushing through that dead cow, covered in blood.

  “Where’d this come from?” I manage to ask, bile burning the back of my throat.

  “Tyler Neely brought them over,” Mom says. “Last night was the annual dinner at the Preservation Society, before the homecoming game. I can’t believe we missed it. Your dad must’ve forgot, too. We’re slipping in our old age. Anyhoo, they had some left over and thought we might enjoy them.”

  “Tyler was here.” I stab the meat with my fork. “And he brought us steaks.”

  Noodle looks at me quizzically, her chin resting in her hands. I want to scream—throw the steak against the wall—but I can’t make a scene.

  I poke at it a few times and glance anxiously at the clock. “Tell you what.” I keep my voice as calm and even as possible. “Can you wrap this up for me?”

  “Oh, is it not cooked right?” Mom comes over to check, but she’s not really paying attention, she’s staring off toward the living room.

  “No, it’s perfect.” I force a smile for Noodle’s benefit. “I just kind of feel like getting some fried chicken from the Piggly Wiggly.”

  “Do you hear that?” Mom asks, cocking her head at a strange angle.

  “What, the clock?”

  Her gaze shifts to the kitchen clock. “Oh, you’re going to be late for the game. You better hurry up.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I get up from the table, giving Noodle a sympathetic wink.

  “Can I come?” Noodle asks.

  “No.” I tickle her under her chin. “You’ve got to get ready for bed. You think you get all those smarts by staying up late? And we need you as smart as you can be. Who else would keep this farm running?”

  She nods. “You’ve got a point.”

  * * *

  AS SOON as I pull onto Route 17, I reach for the stereo, only to find the gaping hole where it used to be. “Idiot!” I scream at the top of my lungs in frustration.

  I know Tyler brought over those steaks just to mess with me. He must’ve finally heard about me going over to Sheriff’s last night. About the cow.

  I pull into the empty lot with six minutes to spare. I’m not even hungry, but if I come back empty-handed, Noodle might start worrying. She’s been through enough. I duck in under the disapproving eye of Mr. Cox, the store manager. “Make it quick.”

  He coached my Pee Wee team in third and fourth grade. Last name, Cox, first name, Richard. It was just too easy. His parents must’ve hated his guts.

  All the deli employees have already gone home. One chicken meal sits baking away under a heat lamp. Grease oozes from the container, but anything’s better than Neely’s steak.

  I walk up to the register and pull out the bills from my back pocket. They’re all tangled up with Noodle’s school letter and the note she left in my shoe last night.

  He turns away from the little radio broadcasting the game with an irritated sigh. “Just take it. Would’ve thrown it out anyhow.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Cox.”

  He glares at me, unsure if I’m making fun of him or not.

  “Big Ben and Wilson are managing to hold them off, but the pressure’s on—and that Neely kid’s been dropping the ball all night. Can’t buy an arm. Not like yours. That’s a gift from God. Shame you’re not playing anymore. We need a killer out there.”

  I look at him sharply, but he’s lost in the game.

  The neon lights shut off before I’m even out the door.

  “Nice to see you, too, Dick Cox,” I mutter as I step into the cold air.

  It’s dark, but I’ve got a little light from the Midland Stadium in the distance. If I listen real close I can hear the faint roar of the crowd. It makes my hand ache, like I should be holding the ball.

  I open my truck door, setting the chicken dinner on the seat. I start to cram all the stuff back in my pocket when Noodle’s note drops to the ground. I pick it up and unfold it. I could use a little cheering up. I lean forward to read it in the small overhead light.

  Written in Noodle’s handwriting, surrounded by sparkly heart stickers, are the words, “He’s coming.” My blood turns to ice in my veins. I start to shake so hard I can hardly hang on to the note.

  I’m bracing myself against the truck, trying to catch my breath, when I hear a horrible screeching noise followed by a strange sucking sound, the same noise I heard in my nightmare of Noodle suckling from the dead calf.

  I walk toward the sound, around the back of the building, and into the alleyway. My heart’s pounding against my rib cage.

  It’s dark, but I can see the outline of the dumpsters and something large in the middle of the alley.

  With each step forward, the repulsive sucking sound grows. Everything inside me wants to run, but I have to see what it is.

  I take my next step, and the motion sensor floodlights come on.

  In the middle of the alleyway, there’s a girl in a Midland cheerleading uniform. She’s crouched with her back turned to me.

  “Hey, are you okay?” I step forward, but a low growling noise stops me in my tracks.

  Slowly, she turns to look at me, her dark hair spilling across her cheek, blood dripping down her chin, a dead cat clutched in her hands.

  “Ali,” I whisper.

  She drops the cat and lunges for me.

  13

  CLUTCHING MY jacket, Ali murmurs, “The sixth generation … he’s coming for us,” before collapsing in my arms.

  “Ali?” I shake her, trying to get her to look at me, but she’s staring right through me, like she’s in some kind of trance. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her back to my truck. Pushing the chicken dinner to the ground, I lay her on the bench seat. Her eyes are closed now, but I can see her chest rise and fall with each breath.

  “Jesus,” I whisper as I back away, dragging my hands through my hair. I kick the container of rancid chicken across the dark, empty lot. What the hell just happened back there?

  I know I should just go get Mr. Cox, let him deal with it, or
maybe I should call Sheriff Ely, or Ali’s parents. God, I can’t even imagine how that conversation would go. Hey, Mr. Miller, I just found your daughter in back of the Piggly Wiggly eating a cat.

  I peer inside the truck. She looks so helpless now, but when she turned around with the cat clutched to her mouth, she looked like some kind of feral animal. Maybe she has rabies. We saw something about that in health class a few years back, or maybe it was TB … I don’t even know what the hell I’m thinking.

  I dig my phone out of my pocket and scan through my contacts, stopping on Emma Granger. She put her number in my phone at the beginning of the year. I’ve never even come close to calling her before, but I can’t think of anyone else.

  My hands are trembling as I dial her number.

  “Hello?” she answers on the first ring.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s like I can’t remember how to work my vocal cords.

  “Clay, is that you?”

  “I … I need a favor.”

  “Anything, and I’m so sorry about today. I—”

  “I found Ali behind the Piggly Wiggly.” I clear my throat. “Eating a live cat.”

  “One Twenty-two Pine Street,” she answers like she’s not fazed in the least.

  I slide into the truck next to Ali and shut the door as quietly as possible. Going through town would be quicker, but I don’t want to risk being seen by anyone. The game will be over any minute now. Win or lose, people will be razzing me.

  Using back streets, I make my way toward Route 17. As soon as I pull onto the two-lane highway, I glance down to see Ali curled up next to me, her skirt riding up over her hip. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about having her in my truck like this … well, not exactly like this.

  I’m reaching over to pull the hem of her skirt down when she starts making a strange sound, nuzzling her face into my lap. All the blood rushes to the surface of my skin. But when I realize the sound she’s making—that she’s purring—I freak out. Yanking the truck over to the side of the road, I jump out and start pacing. My heart’s beating so hard I’m afraid it’ll burst out of my chest. This can’t be happening. I lean against the truck, staring in at Ali. She’s lying there, completely still. What if this is just another nightmare? Or maybe it’s the schizophrenia kicking in.

  What if none of this is really happening?

  A semi thunders by, rocking some sense back into me.

  I grab my toolkit out of the bed of the truck and wedge it between Ali and me as a barrier. The rest of the ride across town, I try to keep my eyes on the road, pretend she doesn’t exist. But the smell of her skin, her hair, only seems to deepen the ache. I glance down at her.

  Even though there’s blood on her mouth, I still want to kiss her.

  14

  AS I pull up in front of Miss Granger’s house, I see her peeking through the curtains, waiting. I gather Ali in my arms. She presses her mouth into my neck and a shiver rushes through me.

  Miss Granger opens the door and hurries us inside. “In the tub,” she says as she directs me to a small bathroom. I know this house. Jess used to take piano lessons over here with Mrs. Wilkerson, until she got Alzheimer’s.

  Gently, I lay Ali down in the few inches of lukewarm water. Miss Granger checks her pulse, raises her eyelids, looks in her mouth.

  I shift my weight, digging my hands in my pockets. “She’s going to be okay, right?”

  Miss Granger gives me a curt nod as she grabs a fresh washcloth from under the sink. “You did the right thing bringing her here. She’s going to be out of it for a while.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Let me clean her up first,” she says. “Can you get a nightgown from my bedroom, please?”

  Reluctantly, I back away from the bathroom and make my way down the hall. My footsteps sound spongy as my boots sink into the shag carpeting.

  I pass a utility closet and a small room stacked to the hilt with file boxes. The last door on the left has a bed in it. It’s covered in an old-fashioned bedspread, like those doilies Mom used to make us use under our drinks when we still hung out in the living room.

  As soon as I step over the threshold, it feels like all the air is being squeezed from my lungs. The walls are covered in crucifixes. There must be a hundred of them—all different shapes and sizes. Some are crudely pieced together with string, others ornately carved. Where did she get all these? I close my eyes, trying to shake the memory of Dad marching off into the wheat clutching the crucifix to his chest, but the image seems to be etched into the back of my eyelids.

  I look around the room trying to find something to focus on, anything other than the crucifixes.

  There’s a photo next to Miss Granger’s bed—a girl probably around Noodle’s age, with a man and a woman, maybe her parents. Palm trees, sunburned skin, but no one’s smiling. It makes me uncomfortable, like it’s something I’m not supposed to see. There’s a well-worn Bible next to the pillow, a passage underlined in ink, with handwritten additions and notes.

  I lean over to read it in the dim light.

  “‘Blessed is the seed,’ the lord said unto them. ‘The seed will be chosen and he shall be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves upon the earth. The blood of the golden calf will set forth ten sacrifices. Only the chosen one will be allowed to care for our lord. To usher in a new age.’”

  What the hell kind of Bible is this? I’m looking for a copyright when Miss Granger calls from the bathroom, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I stand up ramrod straight at the sound of her voice.

  “The nightgowns are in the dresser, bottom drawer,” she says.

  “Sure, okay.” My voice comes out strained as I force myself to move on, to focus on something else.

  On top of her dresser, there’s a small, framed photo of Miss Granger with some old man in a fancy robe and a weird hat, maybe some kind of priest. Looks recent. I knew she was Catholic, but I had no idea how religious she was. Come to think of it, I think Mrs. Wilkerson was Catholic, too. She was a sweet lady, but kept to herself. I wonder what happened to her.

  Crouching down, I open the bottom drawer. It’s filled with perfectly folded white linen garments. I pick one up. It’s a simple long sheath; I guess it’s a nightgown. As I’m getting ready to close the drawer, I catch a glimpse of black lace buried beneath the other gowns. I pull it out by the thin strap; it’s a sheer one-piece, like something you’d see in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

  “Did you find it?”

  “Be right there,” I say as I bury the black lace under the gowns and close the drawer with a little too much force. I shouldn’t be in here looking through her things.

  I stand, and I swear I can feel every Jesus from every crucifix glaring down at me … judging me.

  Clutching the nightgown, I escape the room.

  I make my way down the hall, back toward the bathroom, but the shag carpeting seems to swallow my every step, the hall stretching out in front of me like an endless corridor.

  I hear whispers, a slight trickling of water.

  As soon as I reach the bathroom, I freeze.

  Ali’s cheerleading uniform is wadded up in the sink. Miss Granger’s back is turned to me; she’s using a wet washcloth to wipe down Ali’s body. She squeezes the excess water from the cloth on Ali’s shoulder blade. I track a droplet of water as it trickles over Ali’s breast. Just the sight of it brings the same overpowering feeling I had in the breeding barn. It feels sick and twisted, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

  I must make some kind of a noise because Miss Granger looks back at me with the strangest expression.

  I think we both know we could get in a lot of trouble for this.

  She holds out her hand. “The nightgown, please.”

  I give it to her. “I … I’m so sorry, I—”

  A
nd without another word, Miss Granger pushes the door closed.

  15

  PRESSING MY forehead into the cool wood grain of the door, I whisper, “You’re fine, Clay. Just pull it together.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. Desperate for a distraction, I step into the living room. It’s just a text from Dale. “Not too late to change your mind. I could really use a wingman.” There’s a picture of him photobombing two girls at the Quick Trip. No doubt Laura Dixon’s cousins. They look bored out of their minds.

  Jesus, Dale, not now. I put my phone away.

  Pacing the room, I notice how sparse the furnishings are. No knickknacks or personal items. Just an old brown couch covered in another one of those doily things, a couple of pillows, two hardback chairs, and a coffee table, all situated around a wall where the TV should be.

  The wall has a crisp sheet tacked to it, like it’s covering something up. I peek underneath. I’m expecting a weird painting or crumbling plaster, but not this.

  I pull out the tacks, letting the fabric sink to the floor. The wall is covered with photos, articles, aerial maps, weather reports, and sticky notes. At first glance, it looks like a random collage, but slowly, a pattern begins to emerge. The documents seem to be arranged in six columns. One for each family of the Preservation Society. At the top of each column is a picture—Tyler, Jimmy, Tammy, Ben, Ali, and me.

  “Can you give me a hand?” Miss Granger calls from the bathroom.

  I pry myself away from the wall and tentatively open the bathroom door. Ali’s still unconscious in the now-dry tub, wearing the nightgown.

  My heart stutters. It looks like the same slip she was wearing in my nightmare … the one where I was pushing her on the swing. How can that be?

  “Clay?” Miss Granger’s voice snaps me back. “Can you carry her to the couch for me? I’ll go make some tea.”

  I pick Ali up and try not to think about how close she is to me. Setting her down on the couch, I drape the doily quilt thing over her. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with me, but I need to get this under control.