Fields of Home Read online

  Darrel grinned. “Yeah, I remember.”

  Brandon moved as though doing so caused him discomfort but better than he had at the close of the previous day. Wayne had to admit he’d worked hard and had been easy to teach. He had a quick mind like Darrel’s and years of adult experience at learning that made him open to new ideas. His questions had been endless: Why are farmers required to use treated seed? How does the drill put the dirt back over the seeds? How many times do you have to go over the soil with cultivators before the fields were ready for planting? How much seed do you use? How much water is needed? Wayne had answers ready, but some things you simply had to feel. Or you had to learn by making mistakes.

  “You’ve been a good sport,” Wayne said, handing him a cup of water.

  Brandon smiled. “Do I look like a truck hit me? Because that’s how I feel.”

  “I do, too.” It was the truth.

  “Yeah, right. Like I believe that.” He drank the water and then filled it again from the jug. “Wayne, I think you’re going to live forever by working so hard.”

  “Maybe.”

  Darrel touched Wayne’s arm. “Dad, we forgot.” He took off his hat and held it to his heart.

  “Oh, right.” Wayne pulled his hat off and bowed his head in the direction of the field they’d just planted. “Lord, we thank you for the work that’s been done and ask you to look after this field.” It was the same prayer he’d offered over every field he’d planted for the past thirty years, and he believed it was a big part of why the farm had held its own while so many had gone under.

  “So, do we go on?” Brandon gazed at the field before them.

  “You two can head back to the equipment barn with this old thing, and I’ll finish up here.”

  “What about that field?” Brandon pointed to a field beyond the one they’d finished planting.

  Wayne shook his head. “That one and those beyond it remain fallow this season.”

  “It’s good for the crops,” Darrel added. “The land has to rest sometimes, and then the crops are better.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of that.”

  “Some people try to get around it by using new fertilizers and stuff, or rotating crops. We do that some here, too, but there’s nothing like resting for a season.”

  Brandon nodded, looking impressed at Darrel’s knowledge. “So, shall we head back?”

  Darrel shook his head. “I think I’ll stay. It won’t take long to do this field. I can help fill the drill and keep my dad company.”

  Wayne felt a burst of pride at his son’s offer. He knew that Darrel wasn’t staying because he loved the smell of the earth as Wayne did or enjoyed the satisfaction and comfort of a planted field but because he wanted to be with his dad. Did he feel Wayne’s absence on the new tractor as acutely as Wayne did his on the old one? For the past two days they’d worked near each other but never close enough to talk, to share feelings. Always Brandon had been there, in the way. A hired hand but not quite. The difference must confuse Darrel, even if he wasn’t aware of it on a conscious level.

  Wayne looked at Brandon, who gave a short nod, acknowledging both Wayne’s generosity in having Brandon with them these past days and Darrel’s desire to be alone with Wayne now. “Well, I can take this old tractor back to the barn, if you’ll point me in the right direction.”

  Wayne lifted a hand toward the south. “Go out to that dirt road there. Follow it until you see our grain bins on the right. The equipment barn’s behind them. Just leave it in the yard. I’ll put it away when I get there. To get to the house and your car, head east from there.”

  “And east would be . . .” Brandon thought a moment. “That way, right?”

  “Right.” Wayne smiled, amused at how city people had to think out which way was east or west. In the country east and west, north and south, were as familiar to them as right or left, day or night.

  “I’m assuming this tractor has more or less the same controls as the other one, even though it doesn’t have a cab. Right?”

  “Basically. The controls are actually simpler.” On the pretense of giving Brandon further instructions regarding the old tractor, Wayne walked with him for a space. “You won’t be going to the house.” A statement, not a request or an order.

  Brandon met his eyes. “No. But I do need to talk with you and Mercedes.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Or the next day.”

  They stared at each other a few moments before Brandon nodded. “Okay.”

  They shook hands, and Wayne felt as much admiration for him as he did dislike. What would he do in Brandon’s place? I would never have been in that position. That was the truth. Wayne could as soon have left Mercedes or put her in such a predicament as cut off his own foot.

  Wayne’s chest tightened with the desire to protect Mercedes and Darrel. He had to make things right for his family. He had to. Even if it meant losing the farm and going to work at Safeway. Anything.

  He strode back to the new tractor. Darrel had driven the truck with the seed into position. Forcing down his emotions, Wayne reached for the funnel that would fill the drill with seed. The smell of the wheat and the feel of it against his fingers were calming.

  Darrel came to stand beside him. “So,” Wayne said casually. “What do you think of Brandon?”

  “He asks a lot of questions.”

  Wayne grinned. “I noticed.”

  “Reminds me of the little boys. Annoying sometimes. But at least he has some good stories to tell.”

  “About?”

  “Mostly about being a doctor. He doesn’t shout loud enough over the tractor, though. Could barely hear him even in the cab.”

  “Guess that’s a learned trait.”

  Soon they were on the tractor again, Darrel driving while Wayne watched, taking a rest for the first time that day. Darrel grinned over at him. This was how it was supposed to be: father and son together.

  Yes, this was how it was supposed to be.

  Chapter 13

  Diary of Mercedes Walker

  May 4, 1995

  A year ago I met Brandon. Now he’s gone. He hasn’t called yet. Should I have told him about the baby? I don’t think it would have changed anything. My heart is dead. There is nothing left. I wish I could die. I missed work too much because I’ve been sick, and they fired me, so I had to move back home. Daddy is up from his sickbed a little but mostly just around the house and the yard. Living with him is impossible, worse than when my family all lived here together. I’m under his thumb all the time. Wayne is the only thing that makes being here bearable. If it weren’t for him, I’d go down to the tree by the river and go to sleep forever. I wish Grandmother were back from her sister’s house. I need her. I need someone. I need Brandon.

  Mercedes sat on the rocking chair, holding the infant close to her chest. Funny how she remembered this feeling, the placement, the way her arms had to cradle the child to make sure the baby remained content. Only five minutes of holding her and already it came back, as though it was five years ago and Lucy was in her arms.

  “I wanted to name her after you,” Geraldine was saying. “After all, if it hadn’t been for you . . . but, well, I just couldn’t name her after a car.” Her worn face scrunched with worry. “I hope I don’t offend you by saying that. It’s really a pretty name.”

  Mercedes laughed. “Believe me, I understand. The only reason I got the name was because my father wanted a Mercedes—and got me instead.” He’d also dreamed that Texas held a rich future for him, dreaming about it for decades before finally running off to see if it was true. His obsession with cattle and oil was how Austin had received his name. “Oh, I love my name now, but I got teased a lot growing up. At least he didn’t name me Chevrolet.”

  “I seem to remember that. The teasing, I mean.” Geraldine shifted her position slightly in the other rocking chair, pulling a crocheted blanket further up on her lap to ward off the slight breeze that reached them on the Pinkhams’ front porch. In the dista
nce, they could hear the shout of children, who had only recently arrived from school and were taking advantage of the women’s visit to play tag around the huge grain storage bins across the road from the house. “Anyway, I was thinking of calling her Mercy instead.”

  Mercedes smoothed her fingers over the baby’s cheek. “Mercy is perfect.”

  “That’s what I think. There was a lot of mercy going on here last week. God has blessed us.”

  “Mercy Pinkham,” experimented Mercedes. “Maybe you ought to give her a very regular middle name, just in case.” She herself didn’t have a middle name, and she’d always regretted it. Growing up, she’d wanted her mother’s name, Lucinda. Then she could at least have carried that little bit of her mother with her always. Instead, Mercedes had given the name to her own daughter: Lucy Marie. Now she had lost both Lucys.

  “Good idea,” Geraldine said. “How about Suzanne?”

  “Now that’s pretty.” Trying to shake the sudden melancholy that had come over her, Mercedes asked, “So you said you took her to the doctor? I’m assuming he said her heart was fine?”

  “I made him check twice. She’s perfect. To tell you the truth, it’s me he’s worried about. He gave me pills to build up my blood, and I pretty much have to stay down for another week.” She laughed. “Eleven children—he really doesn’t know what he’s asking, does he?” She held up a hand before Mercedes could protest. “Believe me, I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth. You got the whole county bringing in food, and the older girls are being helpful. Even the little boys cleaned their rooms without being asked. But between you and me, I did sneak in a few loads of laundry after they were all in bed.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have to do that for a while. I think we’ve got it pretty much finished.” Mercedes had taken home the Pinkhams’ laundry yesterday and brought it back today, neatly folded in baskets.

  “I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  “I’m glad to help out.” Unspoken between them but not forgotten was the time when Geraldine had offered a similar service. It had been months before Mercedes had felt up to common tasks after Lucy died, and Geraldine had been a vital part of keeping things together for Mercedes’ family.

  Mercedes stared out at the grain bins, gleaming bright silver in the afternoon sun. Scott was nowhere in sight, but she spotted Joseph’s hair as he squatted behind an old wagon full of last year’s straw. After the wheat harvest, straw was aplenty, and what they didn’t store to use for their animals, they could sell to other animal owners who didn’t raise grain. Squeezing money from every seed was how farmers survived year to year.

  The baby in her arms began moving, rooting around for something to suck. She found her fist, but Mercedes knew she wouldn’t be content with that for long. “Looks like Mercy here is a bit hungry.”

  Geraldine laughed. “She was born with an appetite, I tell you.”

  Giving the baby one last gentle squeeze, Mercedes arose and handed the baby to Geraldine. “I’d best get home. Wayne told me they’d likely finish early today, or at least Darrel will. I’d like to be there when he gets home.”

  “Wait.” Geraldine looked up at her, ignoring the infant’s searching mouth. “Is everything okay? Every time I’ve seen you this week, you’ve been, well, a little out of it. Is something wrong?”

  Mercedes looked away before the tears came, staring out at the grain bins to compose herself. Children ran from one to the next, and she thought she saw Scott with two of Geraldine’s boys.

  Finally, she looked back at Geraldine, who was nursing the baby now, partially hidden under the crocheted blanket. Mercy’s gulps sounded loud in the stillness. “There is something I’m dealing with, but I’m not sure how to explain it.” She crossed back to the empty rocker and sat down. “I feel like I’m two people. One is the person you’ve always known, and the other is the person I might have become if I had made different choices in my youth.” She looked away from Geraldine’s concerned stare. “I wouldn’t give up what I have now—I’m not so childish as all that. I can see the value of what I have. But there is still this . . . this wondering inside. What if in another life I could have been just as happy, or maybe happier?” Maybe there wouldn’t be the hole that had begun to grow in her heart since Brandon’s arrival. Maybe if she’d told Brandon about Darrel thirteen years ago, things would have worked out between them. Maybe Lucy would have had Brandon’s help and survived. One choice, so many consequences.

  “I sometimes wonder that myself,” Geraldine said softly. “But it’s madness to think about. The way I see it, we have only one life. You just live it the best you can. Going back is not an option. Going forward is.” She leaned toward Mercedes. “It’s never too late to go after what you’ve dreamed of—to earn a degree, to learn how to sky dive. But sometimes we forget that when we go after our dreams, we have to give up something to get there. If the exchange is good, then fine and dandy. But if the cost is too high . . . well, maybe we need to find another dream that makes us happy.” Geraldine sat back in her rocker. “That’s why I didn’t study to be a lawyer, though I once thought I wanted it more than anything. I realized years ago that I would have to give up having more children—and living here.” She motioned to the yard and the surrounding fields. “I decided I didn’t want to be a lawyer as much as I wanted what I already had. In the end I was more in love with the idea than with the actual doing.”

  Mercedes nodded. Maybe, if she thought about it, there was some sense in her friend’s words. Though she longed for the knowledge of the life she would have had with Brandon, would she want to give up the life she had experienced?

  No. That was the only possible answer.

  “What do you dream of doing?” Geraldine asked. “You almost became a psychologist, didn’t you?”

  Dream. Lately she’d been dreaming of Brandon. Of his dragging Darrel away. And, just as painful, of the months together before he’d left her to face the future alone.

  “I don’t really know,” she said. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  Silence fell between them, heavy and uncomfortable. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  “Thanks.” Mercedes rose again. “Do you want me to help you in before I go?”

  “No. The girls are around somewhere if I need them. I just want to sit here and enjoy the moment.” Geraldine looked down at Mercy, whose forehead was all that could be seen under the blanket.

  Mercedes’ lips curved into a tender smile. She remembered that feeling of peace, of wishing she could hold that precious moment forever when the miracle of new life was so vivid and immediate. And maybe in a way she had, somewhere inside the heart where memories never die. She could recall each of the boys but more particularly little Lucy in her arms. “You do that. Call if you need something. Otherwise, I’ll be out to check on you.”

  She went to her battered truck and got in, starting the engine and giving a loud honk as a signal to the children. They came running as she began backing out, having learned the hard way to come when called or walk the long miles home.

  They were full of talk and laughter, as was always the case when they were allowed something out of their normal routine. “Remember, we still have the chores when we get home,” Mercedes cautioned. “I’ll do the milking so Darrel won’t have to. He’ll be tired.”

  “I can do it, Mom,” Joseph said. “I’d rather do that than feed the animals.”

  Mercedes grinned. “Okay. You do the milking. I’ll get you started. But call me when you’re finished, so I can see how you’ve done. And there’s still weeding in the garden.” There was always weeding, a little each day to keep the task manageable.

  The boys were in the barn and Mercedes in her garden when Brandon came striding across the fields. He looked different than he had last week. He wore a wide-brimmed hat to shield his face and neck from the sun. His long-sleeved shirt protected the burn he’d managed to get on his arms the day before despite the sunbloc
k, and they were as dirty as Wayne’s were each day. The jeans, once new, were stained and torn in two small spots, one near the knee and another near the hip as though caught on a piece of machinery. Out of a pocket sprouted a pair of Wayne’s work gloves. He walked stiffly, painfully, and she stifled a smile. He’d been a good sport about this, but then he always had been willing to try to please others. She’d loved that about him.

  He walked along the field of alfalfa that had sprung up tall this past week. Another few weeks, and they’d take the first cutting, leaving it to dry in the sun. First she’d have the boys try to scare out all the wild ducks that might be nesting there to prevent them from being chopped to bits by the mowing machine. A few were always caught each year, despite their efforts, but over the years they’d been successful at moving many nests to safety.

  Mercedes looked down at the bowl of peas in her lap. She’d planted the peas as soon as the soil was workable at the end of March, but the pods weren’t fully ready yet. The boys loved them in their salads, as content to munch up the pods as they would have been to eat the fully developed peas inside. The only way they wouldn’t eat peas was cooked, which was probably because she’d never served them that way. Her mother had never bothered to cook anything they could eat raw, and though Mercedes had learned to like some cooked vegetables, peas weren’t one of them.

  Brandon didn’t see her among the plants at first, but when he did, his step faltered. He took a few steps in her direction, altered course and veered toward the house, and then finally turned toward her again.

  She arose and went to meet him, deciding not to comment on his indecision. “All finished?”

  He nodded, his eyes fixed on her face, their green color emphasized by the green of the trees and grass and garden around him. “Just one more field. Darrel wanted to stay to help Wayne.”

  “I see.”

  He looked down at the basket in her hands. “Need a hand?”

  “No. I’m all right. Just getting some peas for dinner. Pulling a few weeds along the way. You eating with us?”