Shelf Life (17 page)

chapter thiRty

M
y backpack lands with a resounding thud when I sling it onto the kitchen counter.

“Lots of homework?”
Mom asks.

“Yeah.
For the first week of classes, they’re not going easy on us.”

“Can I get you something to eat?”

“Sure.”

“Made a cherry crumble.
Want some of that?”

“Definitely.”

Mom removes her cast iron skillet from the oven and heaves it onto the cook top. “Still warm.”

I grab a fork and shovel down the entire thing. I’ve been a bottomless pit lately. I’d had to cough in class a couple times to cover up my grumbling stomach. The last
thing I need are rumors that we don’t have enough food. Jay would be all over that.

“More?” She asks.

“Yes, please.”

Mom takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “Honey, I hate to bring this up when you have so much homework, but the hay really needs its final cutting.”

“I know. Been thinking about that. Gonna get the equipment ready during the week and we’ll cut it this weekend. Let it dry for a week then I’ll gather it the following weekend.”

Mom nods. “There’s a lot out there, dear. It might take more time than you think.”

“Dad always does it in a weekend.”

“But he’s had a lot of practice, and that’s assuming nothing breaks and it doesn’t rain.”

“True. All I can do is make sure the tractor and mower are in good shape. I can’t control the weather.”

“No, but you need a back-up plan if something goes wrong. Your father might be able to come out to the garage and help with the equipment, but he can’t help you in the field.”

“I know, Mom. Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

“I just think you’re in over your head. It’s not too late to move to town.”

I drop my spoon into the bowl a little too hard. The sound makes both of us jump, but I recover and dump the bowl into the sink. “I’ll get the hay cut, if I have to do it with a pair of scissors, okay?”

We stare at each other from our respective corners of the kitchen.

“Okay,” she says. “Just let me know how I can help. Sarah, too. If we don’t have that hay, the cows won’t make it through the winter.”

“I know.”

Her face softens into a smile. “Go do your chores. I’ll have dinner ready at six and then you can do your homework until the last milking. After that, you’re going to bed. You look exhausted.”

“Yes, Mom.”
I grin, knowing she worries over me as if I’m still a little boy. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, honey.”

The afternoon is crisp. The summer humidity is gone, but the sun still shines through the trees, hinting at the orange, red and yellow that will quickly replace the lush greens. Instead of turning right and heading to the barn, I turn left and find myself leaning on the wooden fence surrounding the vegetable garden.

Although I often wish for things other guys my age have—a
smartphone instead of an ancient flip-phone, a flat-screen TV or an apartment of my own—there’s something deeply gratifying about seeing a thriving garden and knowing you’re responsible for its creation. It satisfies some primitive need to know that you have enough food to feed the ones you love. I first had that feeling when Mom read the
Little House on the Prairie
books to me at bedtime. I enjoyed cataloguing the vegetables and listening to her plot out what would go where, how much, when it would need harvesting, and how much the garden would yield.

Of course, I also love conjuring up the amazing dishes Mom makes—rhubarb pie, her famous vegetable stew, broccoli stir-fry, green bean casserole for the holidays, and her award-winning zucchini bread. Despite the two helpings of cherry crumble, my stomach grumbles at the thought, but then it sours, remembering someone—most likely Jay—laid waste to our provisions. From the looks of it, the garden still holds enough late-season produce to replace some of what was lost.

I bend over to yank up a weed, and when I stand, there’s movement on the far side of the garden where it meets the woods that line the creek. I see a flash of red and know immediately it’s Sarah. What on earth is she doing way over on that side of the property? I crouch down and follow her movements. Her voice floats in and out on a breeze from the east. I can’t understand what she’s saying, but it’s clear she’s on her phone.

I sigh and wander over to the chicken coop. Sarah hasn’t refilled their water, so I do it before heading into the barn to greet the ladies.

“Hello, lovelies, miss me?” They snuffle their greetings and shift positions, sending up the fresh scent of hay. Dad filled the back of the barn and the loft with the first two cuttings, and to most people, the barn looks full, but I know better. I glance at the girls. Their lives depend on me, and my family depends on the products we make from their milk.

“No pressure,” I say aloud, but it feels like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.

***

Shoot me now.

That’s what runs on a loop in my head as I make my fifth pass with the sickle-bar mower. On the sixth pass, the tractor gives a great shudder and stalls. I turn the ignition, but the engine doesn’t respond.

“Fucking fantastic.”
I lift the hood, check the oil, the pump, and even get out the tools to check the injectors. Nothing helps, so I kick the tire and turn toward the house. Dad’s sitting in the yard sorting herbs for drying. He lifts his head and pushes back his hat.

“Something wrong?”

“Tractor stalled. Won’t start. I checked her over good, but I can’t figure out what’s wrong.”

Dad scratches his chin. “Get the pick-up. I’ll take a look.”

Five minutes later, we bump across the property as gently as possible with Dad sitting in the truck bed, his injured and casted leg wrapped in a blanket.

“Help me out,” Dad grunts.

I help him slide to the edge of the tailgate and wrap an arm around his shoulder. Together, we limp over to the blue Ford 5000. Dad repeats most of the things I’ve already done.

Suddenly, he barks out a laugh. Dad takes off his hat and wipes his forehead with his arm. “You checked everything, did
ya?”

I nod, but Dad’s still smiling. “Well, son, looks like you’re out of gas.” I close my eyes while Dad chuckles again. “It’ll be our secret. We won’t tell your mom. I’m just glad it’s not serious.”

We slowly drive back to the house. Dad settles back into his lawn chair with the herbs then I drive to the equipment shed and get the diesel can. Bennie follows the whole way.

“How could I be so stupid?” The dog just pants with her tongue hanging out. “I forget my First Aid training, I let the tractor run out of fuel, and then I drag Dad around when I can’t figure out what’s wrong!” Bennie nudges my hand and positions her head under it so I scratch her ears. “Let’s get back to work.”

By the time darkness descends, half the field is cut. Bennie and I head back to the house, but I’m moving much slower than this morning.

“You look beat to hell, son,” Dad says.

“Yeah, thanks. Feel like it, too.”

“Honey,” Mom calls. “Go take a hot shower. It’ll relax your muscles. I’ll have dinner waiting when you
get out.” Mom and Dad exchange a glance, but I’m too damn tired to ask about it. At this point, I don’t care about anything but getting out of these disgusting clothes, filling my stomach, and crashing.

After my shower, Mom places a steaming bowl of beef stew in front of me, along with an entire loaf of fresh-baked bread and homemade butter. I can’t make my mouth wide enough.

Dad laughs. “Pace yourself there, champ, or you’ll choke to death. Then you’re no good to us.”

I snicker, but keep shoveling it in. “Where’s Sarah?” I ask between bites.

“In her room, where else?” Mom shakes her head.

“Did she do the other chores?”

“Yes, but not without major nagging. I had to threaten to take away her phone.”

Just then, the landline rings. Mom picks it up, but quickly hands it to Dad.

“
The mill
,” she mouths. Since Dad’s injury, they’ve been great. Our insurance covered most of the medical bills, plus he gets disability and the guys even took up a collection for him. We used that to cover the co-pays.

Mom’s dishing me a second helping of stew when Dad’s crutches clatter to the floor. Before he falls, Mom dashes to his side and slides a chair under him. The phone still pressed to his ear, he slumps into the chair, his face colorless.

“Uh-huh,” he says. “Just like that?”

Thoughts slip and slide around in my head. Maybe a co-worker died, or the insurance company isn’t going to pay as much as we thought, but it’s weird that someone would call on a weekend.

“How long?”

Mom busies herself at the sink, her shoulders stiff.

“Okay, thanks for letting me know. We’ll figure something out. You take care, too. Bye.”

Slowly, Dad pulls the phone away from his ear, clicks it off, and gently sets it down on the table. He studies his hand for a while, not looking at us, and certainly not giving any answers.

After three spoonfuls of stew, I can’t take it anymore. “What happened?”

When Dad raises his head, there are tears in his eyes.
Oh, shit.

“Son, we gave it our best try. I’ve never been
so proud of you as I have these past few months, with school and taking over more of the responsibility around here.”

A lump that has nothing to do with stew forms in my throat.
“But?”

He locks eyes with Mom. “They closed the steel mill.”

chapter thirty-one

A
t first, Mom doesn’t react. It’s so quiet I can hear her thoughts clicking into place. I watch her face remain perfectly still as she blinks through whatever she’s thinking. Dad’s brows are drawn together with his mouth turned down as if he’s apologizing to her, but for what?

“Well,” Mom says, “that makes the decision easy. We’ll begin packing tomorrow. I’ll call some friends about selling the girls and the chickens, and we’ll look for a place in town.”

“Hold the frigging phone, what’s going on? Why do we have to move just because the mill’s closing? Dad’s still got a pension and disability and unemployment.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t. The mill was bought by a Korean company. They’ll disassemble the mill and ship it overseas in pieces. A foreign buyer means my pension is gone.
Disability, gone. Medical insurance, gone. I can get unemployment, but it’s a fraction of what I make and it won’t last long enough for this leg to heal. I’m so sorry, Linda.”

Mom shakes her head, going to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. I’ve never seen my dad cry before. Well, except in the middle of a really bad PTSD episode. Never when firmly planted in reality—a reality that’s sucking really hard right now. This can’t be happening. I mean, seriously, what the hell else can go wrong? But as soon as I think it, I
kick myself because things can always get worse.

I won’t let them.

I’m not letting my dad’s lifelong dream and all our hard work go to waste. No way am I selling off the girls or leaving the only home I’ve ever known. Funny how I’ve been so ready to get an apartment of my own, but now that we’ve been threatened, I realize it’s the last thing I want.

“No.” Both Mom and Dad shoot me patronizing looks. “Don’t give me that defeatist crap. You didn’t raise us that way.”

“Didn’t raise us what way?” Her Magical Princess Sarah wanders into the kitchen, scratching her hair and yawning.

I give her the basics. She looks both relieved and alarmed. “We’d have to sell the chickens? But I love those little peeps,” she says. “And I don’t want to live in some crappy little apartment and go on welfare.”

For once, we’re in complete agreement. “This is an apocalypse. Not a doomsday one, not a catastrophic one, but an emergency situation nonetheless. Now is the time to put everything you’ve taught us into action. Dad will have unemployment for a while, so we’ll use that time to earn as much money as we can while tightening our belts. We’re practically self-sufficient, anyway. Sarah won’t be able to buy any new clothes or go to the movies, and I’ll pack all my lunches for school. No parties, no expensive campus coffee, and I’ll use the library as much as possible. We’ll cancel the satellite TV—sorry, Dad—and disconnect the landline.” The more I talk, the more ideas pop up.

“The holidays are coming up. Mom, you’re going
to really push your business. Sarah can tell all her yuppie friends how great your soap is and they’ll tell their parents. Market it as high-end, all-natural stuff. Even with his bad leg, Dad can help you with the butter and cheese production, and I really think if we get the word out to the right people, our raw milk sales will take off. We’ve already got a great reputation for being clean and safe. Now we’ve got to think like a business and make more sales.”

I put up a hand before Mom can protest. “I know we lost a lot of stuff from the bunker, but we can also barter for what we need. There are so many farmers around here who have to unload their harvests, this should be prime picking. It’s a simple case of supply and demand. Yes, our demands are high, but so is the supply. It’s perfect.”

This time it’s Dad who opens his mouth, but I stop him, too. “Besides, who’s going to buy our house right now? The economy is down and everyone’s holding on to what they’ve got. You’ve both said an early winter is coming and no one wants to move in a snowstorm. I say this is the time to put our prepping skills to the test. We’ve got water, stockpiled food, and constant sources of dairy and eggs. We’ve got food to feed the cows, shelter, a little bit of cash, and transportation. This,” I say, pointing to each of them in turn, “is a bug-in.”

***

That night, lying in bed, I wonder what the hell I was thinking. Raw milk will bring in money, but not enough, and there’s no way I can get a job
and
run the farm
and
go to school. Something’s got to give, and I’m afraid I know what it is. I try to console myself with the thought that it’s only temporary. Maybe I can get a hardship deferment on my loan or something. Otherwise, I’ll have to begin paying it back, and that defeats the purpose of dropping out.

Damn. Less than a year ago my biggest problem was whether or not Jay would trip me in the hall. Now I’m worried about loans and sources of clean water to get my family through the winter. When the hell did all this happen?

I’m about to turn out the light when there’s a soft tap on my bedroom door. “Come in,” I call, waiting for Mom to enter and try to talk me out of this nutty idea. I sit up and pull on a shirt when Sarah tiptoes in.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, noticing that I have to shove my arms through the sleeves. They’re much tighter than they were when I wore it a couple weeks ago.

“Everything’s wrong,” she says, gesturing to the foot of my bed.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Okay, first, she’s being serious. Second, she’s being polite. I’m freaking the hell out. She sits and takes a deep breath. Then she pulls something out of the back pocket of her jeans and hands it to me.

“What is this?” The envelope is heavy and thick.

“Money.”

“Money?
From where? You don’t have a job.”

“The less you
know, the better. Just take it and use it how you need to.”

She stands to leave but I circle her wrist and tug her back down. Even if all these are one-dollar bills, there’s quite a stack of money here. “Have you been stealing from Mom and Dad?”

“No! God, just take it and don’t be a jerk.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just…you’re throwing me off here. Where did it come from? I need to know. Wait.” An image of Jay with his hands down her shorts slams me between the eyes. “Tell me you’re not sleeping with Jay for money. Is that what that was all about in the orchard?
Jesus fucking Christ, Sarah!”

“Keep your voice down!
It’s bad enough I had to hand this over to you. I really don’t want to explain it to Mom and Dad, too. No, I wasn’t messing around with Jay for money. Not exactly.”

I take a deep breath.
Then another. When a third one doesn’t calm the racehorse in my chest, I decide to mentally stay calm, even if my body won’t cooperate. “Okay. I’m sorry. So you’re not, um, screwing Jay for money. Good. So where did the money come from? I need the truth, Sarah. If I’m going to take this and we’re going to make it through the winter, you and I are going to have to be honest and work together. I promise not to freak.”

Her eyes dart all around my room before she finally shakes her head. “No. Trust me,
it’s better that you don’t know. Take the money and put it to good use. Then it will all be worth it.”

She slips out the door, carefully shutting it behind her. I stare at the envelope for a full minute before opening it. The edges are bent and the paper is cottony soft. She’s had this a long time. Inside are well-worn bills, but not ones and fives. Over half are twenties with a few tens and fifties thrown in. There must be over a thousand dollars here.

If she’s not screwing Jay for money—or at least, not exactly—what the hell else could she be doing for money? Screwing the whole football team? My gut tells me Jay still has something to do with this, but I’m too exhausted to figure it out. I tuck the envelope under my mattress, promising myself I’ll find a safer place for it tomorrow. My eyelids are lead weights as sleep quickly pulls me under.

I don’t usually remember my dreams, let alone realize while
in
one that I’m dreaming. I’m standing in the orchard, but it’s dark. There are three figures ahead, two short and one tall. I move closer until I can hear their voices. I know I need to stay hidden, but my dream self pushes forward.

“Look who’s here,” says the tall figure. It’s Jay. On either side of him are Sarah and Ava. They both have their hands all over him, like he’s the most attractive guy they’ve ever seen. I lunge forward, but my feet are planted to the ground.

“What are you doing with him?” I ask Sarah.

She giggles. “Didn’t I tell you we were using each other? That we’re both users?”

I shake my head, not understanding. A deep voice at my ear says, “You don’t want what they’re selling, Farm Boy.”

I look back at the trio and Jay’s lighting cigarettes for each of the girls.

Except they’re not shaped quite the same as cigarettes. Jay grins and reaches into his pants. For a horrifying second, I think he’s going to whip out his dick, and I try to run, but my feet still won’t move. I have to stay and watch whatever comes next. He tosses something at my chest and I catch it. I look down and in my hands is a small plastic bag, an exact replica of the one Ava put in my pocket.

“Your sister has a reason to keep me satisfied,” he says, and fades into the darkness of the trees. I sit up, panting, with sweat soaking the sheets. I’ve clenched my muscles so hard my calves have charley-horses. I flex my toes a couple times and the spasms stop. I’m the princess and the pea, and the envelope under my mattress is a giant, dirty lump.

My sister hasn’t been screwing Jay for money. She’s been selling drugs for him.