Jackie Shannon Hollis

I drove through Springs with my hands at ten and two, leaned forward in my seat like that would get me there faster. My back was sweat-damp from the heating up morning and from the hurry. I slowed down at the top of Main. The crew bus was already gone from the cook shack. The clock on the dash read quarter to seven. I was forty-five minutes late. Forty-five minutes.

The rest of the crew would’ve been on time, got their bellies full of Sally Johns’ breakfast and their ears full of Joe Johns’ start-of-harvest lecture about going slow and being safe, but not too slow and not wasting time and not being a stupid bonehead or a lazy panty-waist. I knew that lecture. I knew all Joe’s rules. Through all five weeks of last harvest, I never broke any of them.

Being late was the dumbest broken rule and it didn’t make a bit of sense. I’d held out harvest as the thing to get to. I made it through the end of winter, then spring and the rest of senior year. All that time, I just went to school and then home. The only extra thing I did was finish the season as dance team leader and that was just because Miss Harris pretty much begged me. “We need you, Carly,” she’d said. “And you need this.” Her eyes got teary. “I’d just feel horrible if you let what happened stop you.” I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I kept at it.

I walked the stage at graduation, the class banner in gold and blue glitter on the wall behind. I didn’t go to the party after. Stayed away from the river when summer started, missed 4^th of July. The other kids asked and asked and then stopped asking. All except for Joanie.

I waited for harvest. Harvest would be when things got back to normal. When I got back to normal.

I picked up speed and went on past the grain elevators, the gray cement of them turned almost pink with the morning sun. The doors weren’t open yet, and no trucks were waiting, but there was a light on in the weigh booth. Griff Robins would be in there getting things set up for the day, ready to give Warren Mooney the signal to roll up the doors at seven o’clock, no sooner, no later, no matter how many trucks might get lined up.

Being late wasn’t getting back to normal. Not a bit. Dad had called to me, well before six, to see if I was up. I’d called back, “I’m awake.” Which was true. I was. But not out of bed. Not dressed. Not ready to go to work.

The cemetery was just before the city limits sign. Mom there in her grave. She’d say it was rude and irresponsible to be late and there was no excuse for it. Don’t end up in a big rush, get a good night’s sleep, get up in plenty of time, do what you’re told, plan ahead, be ready.

It didn’t matter anymore what she’d think.

I turned west on Cottonwood and started out of town toward the Lark farm, going as fast as I could on the gravel road.

It did matter what Joe Johns would think. I clenched my jaw and got ready for the chewing out he’d give me, probably in front of rest of the crew. To set an example. Joe Johns liked setting examples. I used to set the good kind.

Wheat fields went off in all directions, turned or just finishing the turn to gold. Springs spread out in a small townscape in the rearview mirror. Leafed out trees and one and two story buildings made the elevators look like skyscrapers in some big city. On the bluff that overlooked the high school, “Class of ’76,” was spelled out in white rocks, backwards in the mirror. It still looked almost as neat as it did Homecoming week, when us girls whitewashed those rocks and arranged them there. We came into the school after that, laughing and happy, splotches of white on our hair and clothes, white speckled arms. Mom wasn’t even upset when I came home that day. She just showed me how to treat the clothes so the paint came out in the wash.

Dust clouded out behind me, and the town and those white numbers faded behind it. I came up over a small rise in the road. Slammed my brakes and sucked in air. A red wheat truck was coming straight on, smack dab in the middle of the road, just like me. The tail end of my car slipped and slid in the gravel. I slid forward in the seat and hit the steering wheel and that air pushed out, left a sharp pain in my ribs. Dust all around. I sat back, arms still on the steering wheel, no breath left in me.

When the dust cleared, there was Joanie Bridger in the cab of her truck. Her eyes were bugged out and her mouth sprung open.

I clamped my own mouth shut and swallowed hard. We both opened our doors fast and got out.

“For godsakes Carly.” Joanie’s voice was wound tight. “Scared the hell out of me.” She put her hand on her chest, took two big breaths. Her cheeks were pink beneath her summer tan, and the tiny freckles on her nose stood out more than usual. Even scared, she managed to look pretty.

My voice was gone. I looked at my car. The driver’s side wasn’t more than five feet from the nose of her truck.

“Yikes, look at the wheat,” she said. The bed of her truck was full and the force of the stop had pushed some of the wheat forward, over the cab. Pale kernels spread on the roof, the hood, gathered on the wiper blades, fanned out on the ground. Joanie started scraping at the spilled wheat with her shoe. “Joe’s gonna kill me if he sees this.”

I drew my foot across a sprinkle of wheat. Joe would have double reason to kill me.

“Godsakes, godsakes,” Joanie dragged her foot this way and that, burying kernels in the fine powder dust. “Where were you?” She looked up at me. “Did you just wake up?” It was how she’d been looking at me for months, worried, coming out to the farm, trying to talk me into going one place or another.

There was no way to explain how the day I’d been counting on was here and I couldn’t get myself out of bed to meet it.

“Never mind.” she said. “You better go. Joe Johns is one mad hombre. And that’s the truth.” She pointed a finger, jabbed it three times in the air. “One. Mad. Hombre.”  Wisp curls had pulled loose of her ponytail and framed her face.

“Maybe you should come back with me.” I tried to make it no big deal, like I wasn’t worried. “Make sure he doesn’t kill me.”

“Oh, for godsakes. You’re his favorite. Better you than me.” She looked at her watch. “Yikes. You’re so late. You better haul ass.”

I went to my car. Joanie called out, “Give him that good girl look, that Little Miss Perfect smile of yours. And be prepared to kiss his behind a hundred-thousand times.”  Joanie treated me like she always had, like she was marking a trail for me to find my way back.

I pulled around her truck and picked up speed, pressed my fingers into my ribs. Sore but not bad.

Joanie and I had been best friends since kindergarten. I was a farm kid and Joanie a town kid which meant we might not’ve met until first grade. But both our moms went to the United Church of Christ. And they worked on the church bazaar every year and the Elk’s Annual party, and the 4^th of July planning committee. That meant Joanie and I got put together quite a bit, even before we were kindergartners. We’d shared almost our whole lives together.

She was the one who came and told me about the accident. About an hour after Mom left, Joanie came right in the house without knocking, calling out my name. She came up to my room, her skin was pasty pale. First she told me Aggie Winters was dead. Then she said, “Your mom. It’s bad.”  She handed me my shoes, helped me with my coat. She took my hand and led me out the door and to the car where her mom was waiting behind the steering wheel. They took me to the hospital in Washton. For the hour of that drive, I sat blank and quiet in the back seat. Mrs. Bridger sometimes saying, “She’ll be okay. I’m sure she’ll be okay.” But I knew she wouldn’t.

Becks Brock was pulling out onto the road when I got close to the Lark field. All last year, Becks tended to take light loads, but today there was a good mound showing behind the cab of her truck. The Lark place was the first of the four farms we’d cut. The rich soil on this piece of property, plus a wet spring and the long heat of a dry July, meant a good yield. Us girls would be busy keeping up with the boys.

I pulled off to the side of the road, turned off the engine and got out. The four combines, almost-new John Deeres with boxy glass cabs, were moving at a steady pace.

Becks drove up next to me, her pale bush of hair and even paler blocky face were framed in the open window. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay.” Becks was nice. Maybe the nicest girl in our class. “I was worried about you.” Her whole family was like that, big and Catholic and poor and always polite with that wide-eyed look on their faces. When I went back to school after Mom died, Becks came up to me. She put on a prissy, preachy-face. “I forgive her,” she’d said. “We all forgive her.” Like Aggie Winters was her grandmother or something, instead of some lady that taught her Catechism. Like I’d asked for it. Like I’d forgiven Mom and now that Becks and her church did, we could all just go on.

I shrugged at Becks now, like I had no time to waste. Which was true. Joe Johns’ pickup was nosed up close to the wheat line. Joe was standing by his open door, looking my way. His feet were planted wide and his hands were on his hips with his elbows jabbed out. The bill of his cap was jammed down low on his bald head and, even from where I was, I could see his I’m-pissed-as-hell stare. About a thousand tiny darts of worry let loose on my chest.

I started running into the field.  “Joe,” I called out, showing him how I’d been in a hurry since I got up and that I had meant to be on time. “I’m sorry,” I said when I got closer. I made my voice out of breath, like I’d run all the way from the farm.

He looked at his watch. “An hour, Lang? A goddamn hour late?” Joe was a big tall guy, with a barrel chest and a belly to match.

I stopped in front of him.  Looked up. “Dang it, Joe.” It came out, how things had been coming out of me lately, without me meaning them to, voice hard and mean and raised for a fight.

Joe lifted his cap. The thin hair under it was matted and damp. “You’re not getting off on the right foot.” He wiped his brow with his forearm and jammed the cap back on tight. “Not even on the right toe.”

His eyelids were low, like he knew how I’d rolled over in bed after I heard the double slams of pickup doors, Dad and Rick heading off early to their own harvest. The sound of the pickup driving away. The whole house quiet. I stayed there in bed. Traced my finger over the tiny pink flowers on the wallpaper.

“I said I’m sorry.” I tried to make it sound true. It was true.

Joe folded his arms high up on his chest and tipped his chin up like he needed more convincing.

“Really. I’m really, really, sorry. I overslept.” Like I hadn’t known every minute that had ticked by while I stayed in bed, traced the tiny and perfect leaves and stems and petals.

I touched my side. The tender spot there. “It won’t happen again, Joe. Promise.”

From the moment I woke up, hours before Dad called, I knew. Just because it was harvest, nothing was going to be any different than it had been for the last six months.

“Not like you,” Joe said. “You’re the one I count on to make sure all these panty waists are doing their jobs, not to mention your own.” A drip of sweat trickled down from under his cap. “I know things have been tough for you this year.” He stopped. Looked off at the combines.

That’s how it was in Springs. People talked around things. It would’ve been easier if they just said all of what they meant. They could just as easy say, “How’s things out there on the Lang farm, Carly, now that your mom went and killed that nice old woman and didn’t live long enough to even feel the hurt of it?” And if they asked, maybe I’d tell them.

But Joe didn’t really want to know.

“My alarm didn’t go off.” My voice was shaky with the lie. I’d never used an alarm. Never had to. Mom always made sure I was up and going.

“I don’t need you crying about it. Just need to know I can count on you to get out here on time and do your job.”

“I’m not crying.” No way I’d cry. Not in front of Joe. Not in front of anyone. I swallowed hard. Looked at him.

“Ah, Jesus,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already. Doesn’t help.” He shook his head. “I should send you home.”

“Don’t. Please. Don’t.” I hated the begging sound of it. But I needed that money for college. It was the next thing to get to, the next thing that might make things better.

Joe looked toward the combines making the turn to the near side of the field where Anna’s truck was. “As it is, I need you here pretty bad. Get ready to go. After Anna.”

“Okay. I won’t be late again. Double promise.” Like some goody-two-shoes TV kid.

Joe tipped his head toward the field of uncut wheat, in a shut-up-and-get-to-work kind of way.

I turned and jogged toward my truck. Each step I took broke the soil crust and my feet sank into the soft powder beneath. I’d try harder. Get back to how I was, take his docked pay, be first in line for extra jobs, take perfect loads, do everything right. I’d show him I was still the best damn truck driver in the whole Western world.