Final Harvest Page 2

  Traci felt a hand touch her shoulder so gently it was unnerving.

  “What’s your name, honey?” someone said.

  “Do you know where you are?” another voice continued.

  “No,” Traci said, “I mean, yes. I know where I am. I am somewhere near my house in Magnolia Grove, Keeferton.” Their faces were coming into focus. “I mean, I don’t know what this is,” she said. She could see them now.

  An older woman with short pale-yellow hair that stuck out in jagged points on the side of her head like straw was standing closest to her. She was looking Traci over as if she were the admitting physician in an ER. Two more women, younger and thinner, wearing t-shirts soaked through with sweat, were standing further off whispering to each other. A man, about the same age as the women stood next to the straw-haired woman. He wore a navy jersey from the Keeferton Tornadoes, a minor league baseball team that had been sold and moved on to another county with the pockets to build them a new stadium and cable TV rights. The arms of the jersey were frayed where they were cut off. That seemed appropriate, Traci thought, fixated on this man and his shirt. A young boy stood just behind him. The more Traci looked at the boy, the more apparent it was that he wanted nothing to do with her. And that was also “just fine” with her.

  “Who are you?” Traci asked.

  “Yeah, she’s okay,” the woman said, turning toward the others. “They tell you to ask simple questions to see if their mind is alright, y’know?” She turned back to Traci, “My name is Rowena, by the way. Rowena Garrett. This is my farm.”

  Traci spotted her backpack on the ground near the boy. She reached for it and startled him. He stepped back on his heels. Then rebounded and tried to help her pick it up. But froze again when he noticed the scar on the inside of her left forearm. Traci pulled down her lace sleeve to cover it and snatched up her backpack.

  “I’ve gotta go,” she said without looking up.

  “You live around here?” said the would-be ball player.

  “Yeah, in the green and brown house over there,” she said pointing in the general direction of Spring Street.

  “Oh, yeah, that house was vacant for a long time,” the man said.

  “I thought it still was,” said one of the whispering women with a giggle.

  “No, it’s mine,” Traci said brushing dirt from her blouse. “I own it, actually.”

  “How come I don’t remember seeing you?” the same woman said, “Seems I would recognize you from hanging around Keeferton somewhere. I got a real good memory for faces. Ain’t that right, Miss Rowena? You go to Reverend McMoultry’s church? They got some new people that joined last Sunday. They from Pekote County, I think. Wasn’t that it?” She nudged the other woman next to her in the sun hat, who shrugged and looked away.

  “I don’t really hangout much,” Traci said. “Haven’t had time to make any friends around here.”

  “How long you been living in that old house?” she asked with a smirk.

  “Two years.”

  “Yeah, I guess you pretty busy alright,” the woman said rolling her eyes.

  “Sarah, I think I’ve seen her catching the bus from time to time,” said Rowena and looked out the corner of her eye toward the woman. “Just never met. What is your name, honey?”

  “Tracin ... Traci.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, Traci,” Rowena said, smiling. “You best be getting home now and tend to that.”

  Traci looked down with dread at her leaking backpack. She turned and walked toward the green and brown house, not sure that anything she was seeing was legal. And hoped she would never see these people again.

  Chapter Three

  TRACI TOSSED HER MAIL on the coffee table next to the collection of sample paint strips and stared at the letter on the top of the stack. It was from County Commissioner Polk’s Land Management office.

  “Now what?” she sighed, pushed a chair against the front door and wedged it under the knob. She carried the letter with her to the kitchen and placed her backpack on the counter. She unzipped it and examined the contents. The leaking bottle was still half full, and for that she was thankful. She took out her NeverMore souvenir mug and filled it halfway with the morning’s leftover coffee. Then, she added some whiskey for good measure, took a sip and picked up the letter again. She walked out to her back porch, flipped through her phone messages and found the one from Ms. Rios.

  The Dependable Flyers job requirements sounded simple enough. She checked the bus schedule app, then set the alarm for 6:15 a.m. That would give her enough time to swallow some breakfast, pack a lunch and catch the 8:20 bus for Bridgewell Circle. She opened the letter and read it through twice, searching for good news. There was none.

  She sat on the cool stone steps on her back porch under the trees and inhaled the faint scent of the honeysuckle from across the alley.

  Deep belly breaths.

  Two more.

  It wasn’t working. That familiar sensation was rolling up her arms and legs like a million centipedes.

  “I need to talk to Myra.” She pressed three on her speed dial and waited through the voicemail greeting on Myra Rogers’ personal cellphone, hoping she would pick up and answer. She hung up and dialed again. She took another deep breath and tried again. Voicemail.

  “Myra, this is Traci. Please call me. I lost my job today. Another one and I’m a little scared that . . .” She took a sip from her cup, “I’m thinking maybe I’m running out of options here.”

  She waited for the beep, hoping Myra would pick up. The call disconnected. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the phone and waited for the trembling to cease before she put it away.

  Myra Rogers had been Traci’s case worker from the first day she entered the foster care system in Faucier County until she aged out as a teenager. Myra kept in touch every week and even helped Traci get accepted into the First Time Home Buyers Program. The rehab property only cost her one hundred dollars plus processing fees. They required her to keep up the tax payments and repairs. And maintain a full-time job. Myra was instrumental in the latter. When Traci’s therapist stopped accepting slow-paying uninsured clients, Myra stepped in. Traci lost count of how many late night calls, texts and video chats they shared. If there was such a thing as a guardian angel, Myra Rogers was the perfect example. Myra would tell her what to do. She’ll know how to handle this, Traci thought as she drifted to sleep, the cool porch floor against her back, pulling all her muscles down to rest.

  Traci woke up to the sound of wild birds squawking and beating their wings in the trees overhead. She looked around and noticed the sun was setting through the old oaks and magnolias that shielded her property line from the busy street and adjacent abandoned properties. She caught a glimpse of something orange or red moving through the trees and then drop to the ground. It was a cat carrying a small bird. Traci, fuzzy headed, moved toward the commotion. The cat darted through the shrubs and down the alley. She had never seen this cat before and knew the bird was a goner by now. But she followed it anyway. She wanted to give the owner a piece of her mind. Maybe it’s a stray.

  “Then I’ll set a trap and call the animal warden,” she said to herself. She ducked under the trees, stumbled across the gravel-filled alley and through the backyards of several abandoned houses. She was tired and realized she was probably overreacting as she reached a small clearing. A red and white house with a grand wraparound porch stood in the middle of a freshly cut lawn. At the entrance of the lane there was a lamppost with a sign swinging gently in the breeze, Hazelton House. Traci followed the orange tabby up to the house. It slipped through the lattice under the porch full of young children, teenagers and one adult. Rowena Garrett.

  Traci walked up the path and approached her.

  “Hello again,” said Rowena with a welcoming smile.

  “Hello,” Traci said, “is that your cat?” She pointed at the pair of bright green eyes peering through the lattice.

  “Yes,” Rowena said. “One of
them.”

  “It was in my yard,” Traci said trying to moisten her dry lips, “Took a bird. It took a bird from my backyard.” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “You shouldn’t let your cat kill birds like that.”

  “Why not?” Rowena said, “Everybody’s gotta eat.”

  Traci looked at the small crowd milling around the porch. One girl was stretched out on her stomach writing in a school workbook, another wearing earbuds watching videos on a tablet.

  “You hungry?” Rowena said.

  A young girl came and sat between her legs on the steps. Rowena took the elastic tie from around the thick ball of hair and parted it down the center.

  “I’ve got food at my house,” Traci said.

  Rowena’s nimble fingers braided down one side of hair as the girl read from a thin dog-eared chapter book, whispering as her finger slowly moved over each word. She looked down and squinted at the page and said, “Dazzle. That word is pronounced ‘dahzz-uhl’, honey.”

  “I didn’t ask if you got food. I asked if you was hungry,” Rowena said, turning back to Traci.

  “Yes, actually I haven’t eaten dinner today.” Traci mumbled.

  “Then go on in there and fix you a plate,” Rowena said, “Don’t stand there like you expect me to wait on you or something. I’m plenty of things but I ain’t nobody’s maid, y’know.”

  Traci stepped past Rowena and the freshly coiffed little girl and entered the back door into the spacious kitchen. She had never seen a kitchen this large. Two box fans were poised in the tall windows that forced the evening air through the house. It had the black and white checkerboard tile floor that she had seen in Faucier Home magazine, and ceiling high built-in cabinets in antique sage with polished mahogany door pulls. The wallpaper was off-white with a classic fern and berries pattern. Two refrigerators and a chest freezer hummed and filled one side of the room near the pantry door. A large six burner stove with a huge exhaust towering over it stood as the focal point. The aroma of fried chicken wafted through the steamy room. A pot of mixed greens and ham simmered on the stovetop.

  Two people that Traci recognized from that afternoon entered from the front room carrying paper plates covered in aluminum foil and bottles of fruit juice. Others were congregating around the tables with makeshift hostess-ware of mismatched plastic containers and re-purposed glass jars. Everyone was chatting and laughing. Over the remarks about the food and the weather, she could hear a jazz saxophone solo and a full band joining in flowing from a small speaker on top of the fridge. She walked toward the sound and bumped into someone. It was the boy from the field.

  “Sorry,” Traci said.

  “It’s okay,” he said and turned away.

  “I saw you earlier today,” Traci blurted, “right?”

  He was wearing the same clothing from the afternoon and was focused on balancing a plate full of food and devouring every bit of it.

  “Yeah,” he said quickly and continued chewing.

  “My name is Traci,” she said not sure why she picked this boy to start a conversation. Perhaps it was because he looked just as uncomfortable as she felt in the room full of strangers.

  “I know,” he said while biting into a drumstick.

  Traci watched him peel off the skin, bite and swallow the rest, then toss the clean bone in the trash in twenty seconds. His hands were scarred but clean, his eyes ringed with dark circles, his skin deep mahogany where the sun had traced the brim of his hat. He looked up and locked eyes with her.

  “I’m Milo,” he said and continued staring at her as if daring her to look away.

  “Hi Milo,” Traci said and was immediately at a loss for words. She looked around and decided on, “Do you work for Miss Rowena?”

  “Sorta,” he said, “I guess you can call it that. We all do, but we don’t get paid money or anything like that.”

  Curious to know more about what she saw in the field, she decided to stay awhile. She went to the table and filled a plate with a chicken breast, cole slaw and bean salad. She couldn’t decide on whether to add a piece of strawberry rhubarb cobbler or wait until later. It all looked delicious and there was plenty, more than enough for everyone.

  She turned around to rejoin Milo and finish their conversation, but he was gone. And, just like that, she was the only one left in the room. Feeling self-conscious and embarrassed for accepting the invitation to make herself at home in this total stranger’s house, she replaced the food, tossed the plate aside and walked back outside.

  The sun had all but vanished behind Mount PierPoint, leaving only shadows of people returning to the field. She could see Miss Rowena’s long faded denim skirt swaying from side to side as she moved through the rows between mounds of soil and vegetation. Someone lit a lantern and hung it from a wire strung between two of the magnolias. The day was not done for these people, but it was for Traci. She remembered her first day with Dependable Flyers and headed back toward the alley. This day had taken a lot out of her. She checked her phone. Nine-thirty and no word from Myra. She made it home just before the darkness completely overtook her backyard. Time for bed and thoughts of young Milo working in the fields.

  Chapter Four

  TRACI WIPED DOWN THE fogged bathroom mirror and frowned. She smoothed on a thick coating of sunscreen over her face and arms, rubbed some Kurly Locs oil in her palms and spread it through her hair. No point in making a fuss about hair and makeup. She’d probably be outside all day in a cap and shades. She pulled her shiny curls into a floppy bun on top of her head and added a swipe of lip gloss. She checked her phone again, nothing from Myra. That was strange.

  She decided to make an appearance at Dependable Flyers as scheduled. According to the information Ms. Rios gave her, she would complete the on-boarding paperwork and orientation during the morning. Then, they would assign a company bicycle and she would shadow another Flyer for the rest of the day. She would try calling Myra during her lunch break. They could sort out her next move and figure things out together. She stared into the almost empty fridge and realized that she had nothing prepared for her lunch bag. Her stomach churned as she regretted not eating any of the food she saw last night. Or, at least, she should have taken some home for later.

  She shoved her hand into a cereal box, grabbing a couple handfuls to munch on while checking her messages, again. Nothing. She double-checked to make sure her alert notifications were set for Myra’s number. She drank the last three gulps of orange juice and headed out the back door. She had plenty of time to catch the R-3 thanks to very little sleep last night. First day on a new job always made her antsy. And this one was more unsettling than usual without being able to check in with her former case worker for a pep talk.

  Myra’s calming voice had followed her through tough situations and kept her from unraveling. She started down the back steps and out into the yard while the crickets were still singing in the grass. Her mind kept going back to Milo. There was something in his eyes and the way he answered her. What was it? Fear. No, something else that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She shook her head. There were more important things to think about than some kid and a bunch of strangers.

  She would have to respond to the letter from Commissioner Polk’s office. And there was Mayor Gundry’s report on how she planned to complete the repairs on her house. The officials had been patient and very lenient with the rehab timeline, thanks to Myra’s influence, but Traci knew her time and luck were running out. She was doing all the work by herself and her skills were not up to every task in front of her. She tried to work on the most noticeable violations first. She managed to improve the curb appeal, which won them over big time during the first inspection. But there was plumbing, and drywall still left to do. No major electrical, thankfully. And the roof needed patched. She had meditated on all possible scenarios. She had to stay on this job at least six months to get full benefits and maybe it wasn’t worth it. If she gave up, sold off and moved, where would she go? She tried calling Myra ag
ain. It was early, but whatever. Voicemail, again.

  “Hi Myra. This is Traci again. Please call me when you get this message. I’m on my way to this job. The courier one. Anyway, call me.”

  She shoved her phone in her pocket, and instead of walking down Spring Street to the bus stop, she turned down the back alley and wandered past the side yard of the magnificent Hazelton House.

  There were already people bustling around the greenhouse and sheds, pushing wheel barrels and arranging an assortment of tools in stacks. There was a cluster of folks gathered around looking at a piece of paper tacked on a tall wooden post. Rowena Garrett came out the back door of her house barking orders.

  “No smoking ‘round here, Darnell. I told you that before. Y’all be sure to check the schedule and be on time tomorrow! We’ve got traps to set. I’ll be dog-goned if I’m gonna let some groundhog eat up all our crops this year.”

  Traci kept walking toward the scene, searching the crowd for Milo. She finally spotted him attaching a flat hose to a water faucet at the edge of one of the rows. She started to approach him when Rowena turned and noticed her.

  “What you doing lurking around?” she said. ”There’s biscuits and gravy on the stove. Maybe some bacon left, but I doubt it. Help yourself if you want to.”

  “I don’t know. Just curious, I guess.” Traci said.

  “Well, we got the cure for that around here.” Rowena said, “Here, pick up the end of that soaker line and pull it along that row over there.” She pointed to where Milo was wrestling with the rolls of nylon mulch. “We gotta get these in place before that heat wave hits this weekend and dries up everything we’ve worked for up ‘til now.” She turned and looked at Traci, “C’mon, get busy.”

  Traci picked up the end of a long flat rubber hose and tried dragging it with her free hand toward Milo. He came over and took it from her.

  “I got this,” he whispered.

  “I have to catch a bus and get to work,” Traci said with an apologetic glance. “I have a job.”