Shelf Life (5 page)

CHAPTER
eight

S
weat stings my eyes as I bend over a row of beans, stabbing at the weeds with a hoe. The green stems lift from the brown earth, their roots exposed to the deadly air and drying sun. For good measure, I slice them further with my blade until my arms and shoulders burn from the effort. Overkill, yes. Enough to satisfy my rage? No.

“You should be wearing a hat, young man.” Mom shakes a gloved finger at me and squints from beneath her straw bonnet. “You want cancer?”

I roll my eyes and take out a giant clump of clover that worked its way between the plants. The hay’s not quite ready for its first cutting, so I’m helping Mom with her kitchen garden, which to most people means a small patch of veggies: beans, strawberries, potatoes, tomatoes, maybe carrots or something more exotic like rhubarb.

Not my mom’s garden. Sure, we’ve got all those, but as a prepping family of four, we’ve got massive quantities of the
usuals, plus onions, cucumbers, peppers—red, green and yellow—broccoli, cauliflower (yuck), squash, lettuce, radishes, celery, pumpkins, watermelon, cantaloupe, honeydew, and garlic. And that doesn’t even include the herb garden, orchard, or berry patch.

Every year, it all has to be prepared, planted, fertilized, watered, weeded; then picked, plucked and the remains plowed under while the produce is
washed, trimmed, sliced, diced, pureed, minced and boiled; pickled, freeze-dried, bottled, canned, or frozen; then labeled, dated, sorted, and stored.

And I’m fucking tired.

“You know, they sell beans in grocery stores these days. I could just run down there and get you some.”

I grin as her brows draw together and lips pinch into a straight line. “Not funny.”

“Come on, it’s a little funny.”

“You want processed beans with all those chemicals? And what happens when farm workers go on strike or there’s a drought? You
gonna pay five dollars for a small bag of beans?”

“Relax, Mom, I’m teasing.”
Sort of
.

“I know, but I wish you took this seriously. You can’t
bury your head in the sand forever.”

Hearing Lindsey’s words come out of my mom’s mouth is a knee to the nut. “I do not have my head buried in the sand—about anything. I listen to all of Dad’s crazy political lectures and he forces me to watch the news with him. Plus, I’ve seen every conspiracy theory show there is, and I even go along with his bug-out drills.” Those usually start with Dad shaking me awake at two in the morning and end with him yelling that we’re not fast enough. At least I think that’s what he says, but it’s hard to tell through his gas mask.

Mom sighs and leans on her shovel. There’s a smudge of dirt on her cheek so I stare at it instead of listening to the words I know are coming and I’m sure I’ve heard before—something along the lines of,
We need to be self-sufficient. Change is coming, and possibly another civil war, and it’s our job to protect you kids and keep us alive. Better to be prepared than dead.

My money’s on zombies.

“Why don’t you take a history or politics class this summer? It’s not too late to add a class, is it?”

The hoe slips from my hands and hits the ground, knocking over a few young bean plants. “Um, I don’t think so. Why?” Suspicion blossoms in my gut.

“You could get someone else’s opinion instead of having to drink our Kool-Aid. You’re not required to believe the same way we do, but it’s important to at least think about these things. History will show you it repeats itself—that’s just a fact of the human condition. Doesn’t matter what country, what time period, or who rules the kingdom, the conflict and outcome are always the same. Only the details change.”

I’ve never thought of my mom as an intellectual. She’s a grass-roots, down-home kind of person,
who’s happier snipping lavender bunches or pouring homemade candles than sticking her nose in a book. Dad’s always been the one to devour the newspaper from front to back, slam it down on the breakfast table, and launch into a one-man argument on the idiocy of our local and state representatives on some issue or other. Usually doesn’t even matter what the issue is, he’ll argue about it.

I once asked him if he thought everyone was so stupid, why didn’t he run for
office?

“And rub elbows with spoiled brats who don’t know the difference between a democracy and a republic? Not a chance.”

He’d turned up the volume on Fox News and that was that.

Mom’s less political, but just as hardcore about being prepared.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her. She smiles her approval, knowing I’ll jump at the chance to get another class out of the way, even if it’s something as stupid as politics or history. It puts me one step closer to leaving this craziness behind. Why can’t we just be normal? I don’t mind working in the garden and the fields, tending the animals, and helping Mom preserve all the produce, but the paranoia is too much. I don’t want every dinner conversation to center around the government’s efforts to take away our guns, buy up all the ammunition and send prices sky-high, or how the rich are getting richer and cell phones are the FBI’s way of keeping track of us.

I just want to be normal.

With Dad at work, lunch is relatively pleasant, especially when Mom brings out a rhubarb upside down cake I didn’t know she’d made. “This stuff is wicked,” I tell her between bites. “You could sell this.”

She smiles. “You say that about everything I make.”

“It’s true. You’re the best.”

“I’ve thought about selling baked goods, but they don’t bring in as much as the soap and…”

“I know.” Mom makes her own and sells it every Friday at the Rogers Sale, kind of a farmers market and flea market put together. You can find everything from fresh eggs to vintage Playboys, broken toys, and rusty tools. The cops come in now and then and clean out the vendors selling knock-off shirts and purses, but they usually leave us farmers alone. That would change if they knew Mom was violating state laws on selling raw milk products. That’s where she really makes her money.

“So, where have Lewis and Lindsey been? I thought for sure with school being done, they’d both be over here.”

I shove an extra huge piece of cake in my mouth so I don’t have to answer right away. While I chew, I contemplate telling her the truth, but in my head it never ends well. I can’t see the point when Lewis won’t even let me talk to him. I hate to lie, but there’s no choice. “Lindsey picked up more hours at Unkefer’s, and I don’t know what Lewis is doing. He, uh, didn’t feel good the last day of school, so maybe he’s still sick.” I pat myself on the back for telling her more truth than lie.

“Lindsey’s really not going to college? Such a shame, she’s a bright girl.”

“I know.”

“Tell her to stop over for dinner some night after work. I need to ask her some questions about the girls’ feed.”

“Will do, Mom, and thanks for lunch.”

“Of course.
Ready to head back out?”

“Sure thing.”

The rest of the afternoon flies by in a blur of berries, beans, and chasing the chickens back into their coop. As usual, Sarah pretends she’s tending to the orchard, but I happen to know she sneaks books out there and reads under the trees. I don’t fault her for reading, but it does piss me off that the rest of us are busting our asses to put food on the table.

I’ve just got the last hen inside when I hear Mom’s
voice carry across the yard. “
Dinner’s almost ready! Get your sister?
”

“
Yeah!
” I don’t mind this chore. It’ll be fun getting her in trouble. She’s only got a couple responsibilities around this place: gathering eggs, pruning the orchard, picking apples, cherries and pears when it’s time, and tapping maple trees in February. It’s not that much, and if she’s not busy, she should be helping Mom process this morning’s milk.

But she’s not, and I can’t wait to see her face when I sneak up on her.

There’s not a terrible amount of cover in the straight lines of trees, yet I hear her before I see her. She must be on her phone.

I round a shrubby apple tree. “
Boo!
”

But it’s me who gets the surprise.

CHAPTER N
ine

S
hirtless, with his hand down my sister’s shorts, is Jay Leaher, scourge of my life. Deer in headlights have nothing on Sarah as she tries to scamper away from Jay, but he holds her in place. If she moves backward, he’ll be able to strip her shorts right off.

“Can’t
unsee that, can you Twig? You should feel how wet she is for me.”

A choking sound comes out of my throat.
Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?
To her credit, Sarah’s face is the picture of humiliation. Jay, on the other hand, wears the same smirk he did in Helen Miller’s barn, sending me right back to that night, and I can’t move, can’t say anything, can’t manage to look away.

“You like what you see, Twig? Should’ve known you’re a pervert, though you better not
be staring at me.” It’s kind of hard not to when his bulging muscles are in my face and his fat neck ripples when he twists his head to sneer.

Finally, feeling returns to my limbs, which I use to turn around and bolt all the way back to the house, but once I get there, I’m gasping for air and there’s no way I can face my parents in this state. The barn is my refuge. I climb into the hayloft and throw myself down in front of the access doors. Normally the smell of the barn is a comfort but right now it’s stifling, so I push open one of the doors and sit with my legs dangling over the edge.

My sister. With Jay Leaher.

Why?

He’s right, I can’t unsee that. It’s one thing to see your sister naked when you’re both little and your parents put you in the bathtub together, or even when you’re older and wearing swimsuits, but what I just witnessed heads into skin-crawling territory, hops the fence, and keeps on running. Is she secretly dating him? And by that I mean having sex with him on a regular basis, because Jay doesn’t actually date anyone. He screwed the entire cheerleading squad in high school, but none of the girls lasted longer than a couple weeks, if that.

My sister’s got a reputation, but I thought she had standards.

Wait. Maybe he was forcing her and I didn’t give her a chance to explain. He could have been attacking her and I ran away! Deep down, I know that’s just wishful thinking—sick and twisted, I know—but it would almost be better than betrayal by someone who’s supposed to love me. I mean, yeah, we fight and hate each other, but we love each other. God, I don’t know!

Not willing to take the tiny risk that my sister needs
me, I climb down from the hayloft and meet up with her on the far side of the wood pile. Her clothes are back in place and her hair is pulled into a smooth ponytail.

“What the hell, Sarah?”

“Get out of my way,” she says, trying to stomp past me to the house.

“Was he hurting you? If he hurt you…”

“He wasn’t hurting me.”

“So you wanted that?”

She makes a face.

“Why him?
Of all the people in this town, why him?”

“It’s complicated,” she says. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Talk or I’ll tell Mom.”

At that, she stops walking and turns around, her finger in my face. “You’ll tell no one, tattletale, because if you do, I’ll tell her how you just stood there while Lewis got sucked off by a cow while piss drunk.”

“Why are you such a bitch?”

“Why are you such a coward?”

She’s delivered a pitchfork to the heart.

Coward.

Asshole.

Wuss
.

Pansy.

Loser.

Fraud.

I’m all of these things
.

B
ut most of all, I’m ashamed.

***

Morning dawns a bit brighter. After my chores, I jump in the shower and try to wash off the apprehension and excitement prickling my skin. Sarah’s words before Helen’s party echo in my head as I open my closet and select what to wear on the first day of summer classes at YSU. T-shirt and jeans? A button-down? I yank on a pair of Levi’s, a red polo, and call it good.

The required biology class that begins today is on
organisms and ecology, but I’m wondering if Mom was serious about me adding another class. I figured she’d want me home to help with the farm during the busy days of summer. Sure, I need to get all the dumb classes out of the way, so it couldn’t hurt, but the thought of sitting through lectures on politics and ancient history sounds as attractive as Jay’s hairy ass.

I stuff an apple into my backpack along with a map of the campus. I reach for my phone to call Lewis, but then I remember.

“Made you coffee,” Mom says and hands me a travel mug.

“Thanks. I should be back by noon.”

She reaches into the antique cookie jar on the counter and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. “Take your time, honey. Here’s some cash for lunch.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her, and push away her hand. “I packed an apple—”

“Don’t be stubborn. Take it and use it wisely.”

Reluctantly, I take the money. I know how much work she had to do to earn those twenty dollars. Guilt blossoms in my chest.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Call if you get lost in the ghetto.”

“I won’t get lost in the ghetto.”

She tilts her head as she palms her own coffee cup. In the light shining
through the front window, I see a streak of gray in her brown hair. “You never know. I’ve seen the campus. Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“Sorry.”

“Have fun—and see about adding one of those classes we talked about, okay? Dad said it was fine.”

With a kiss to her cheek, I’m gone. The drive up
Route 11 is quick but lonely. There’s not much traffic before the morning rush hour, but just enough inside the city that I worry about finding a parking spot in time to make it to class. More than once I catch myself chewing calluses off the hand that’s not on the steering wheel. It even grosses
me
out, yet my teeth keep gnawing at the hardened patches of skin.

Both sides of the highway are dotted with run-down houses, some obviously empty, others sadly occupied, sheets covering the windows, plastic lawn chairs decorating front porches. Between them are bare lots or convenience stores that I suspect sell more out the back door than the front.

Thankfully, my exit approaches. I guide the Explorer to the right and wait for the light on Wick Avenue to turn green. In one of those weird moments, the click of the turning signal perfectly syncs with my heartbeat. Set back from the curb on the right are the dirty bricks of the Museum of Labor and Industry, and I wonder—not for the first time—who the hell would want to know about that stuff, let alone pay admission? Isn’t that why we’re all here at a university—to avoid shitty, soul-sucking factory jobs or the greasy underside of an old lady’s Chevy Malibu?

Except when he did his tours in Iraq, my dad’s spent his whole life in a steel mill. He comes home dirty and exhausted, then turns around and breaks his back working the farm. He’s blue collar to the core and never lets me forget I’m the first on both sides of the family to go to college. On the one hand, I think he’s proud. On the other, he’s afraid. Even though I’ve always wanted to be a livestock veterinarian, he
thinks I’ll abandon farming. That’s pretty hard to do when your patients are
on farms
, but make just enough to get by while running the Wilson Family Crazytown Compound in case the world comes to an end?

No, thanks.

The sun peaks up over the football stadium just as I turn left into the ancient parking deck. Chunks of concrete litter the floor of the first level. I head for the roof and slide between a beat-up Mustang and rusty purple Neon with plates that read, “2HOTTT.” From up here I can see most of the valley, including the brown and gray office buildings and churches of downtown. My head snaps to the side when a flock of small birds push off from the deck’s railing in unison, wings beating a frantic rhythm against the glowing sky.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Then a horn honks and someone yells, bringing me back to reality. I take a deep breath and take off for the elevator.

According to my orientation tour, the science building is near the heart of campus. Past administration buildings, a coffee shop, and an odd painted boulder in the middle of campus, Ward Hall looms dark, a squat mushroom from the seventies. It’s constructed of the same concrete as the parking deck and boasts the same ground-out cigarette butts in front.

The contrast between Ward Hall and the shiny new sports complex next to it is laughable. Outside, a group of guys stands near the entrance with YSU drink bottles, each guzzling for their lives. From the looks of their mesh shorts, lack of shirts
, and beefy stature, I’d say the football team is practicing. I look away and shrink into the polo shirt I fail to fill out.

“Rumor has it the Italian mafia donates money to the university and stipulates that new buildings are made of concrete. They can hide bodies in the walls. Jimmy Hoffa is encased in the library, you know.”