The Saints of Swallow Hill(5)
Moe’s head appeared in the opening above him. “Why’re you standing there, get busy.”
Del took his hand away from the ladder, carefully prodding at the grain with the tip of the shovel. Nothing drastic happened, so he hobbled to the side of the bin, and began stabbing the end of the shovel into the grain one-handed while keeping his other hand on the wall for balance. Despite the moldiness, it came loose easy enough, and he kept walking in a circle around the edge, poking here and there. Eventually, after nothing happened, he got brave enough to go to toward the middle, and after a while, he’d done all he could. He went back to the ladder, climbed it, and stuck his head through the opening like a gopher coming out of a hole, relishing the warm, fresh air.
He yelled to the other two. “Open the door!”
Hicky gave him a thumbs-up and swung the door open.
They took their pick axes and began chopping at the wall of grain, and Woot yelled, “Here it comes!”
Del descended the outside ladder, relieved. He’d been given a pass for the first woman. By the end of the day, they finished emptying the bin. Two to go. The second day went like the first. Del inside, loosening the grain before helping Woot and Hicky shovel for all they were worth, eager to be done. A second forgiveness for another wrongdoing. Moe hung around watching, smoking one of his fat cigars. Third day, Del climbed the ladder and stared inside like he’d done with the other two, gauging the depth. This bin had more in it, about three-quarters full.
“Last one,” he said out loud to nobody.
Moe stalked to the base of the ladder and prodded him with a command: “Quit wasting time!”
Del entered the bin and began like usual, chipping away at moldy, compacted corn, until Moe shouted, “Open the door, let’s get this show on the road,” and Del froze, mouth open.
Hicky’s voice raised in protest. “It ain’t safe with him in there, is it?”
Alarmed, Del went to high-stepping it back to the inside ladder quick as he could. His sudden movements caused him to sink, and he fell, becoming more rattled when he couldn’t get up right away. He scrambled to his feet somehow and began promising himself, when he got to the ladder, and got out of the bin, he’d tell Moe he’d do anything but this, and if Moe didn’t like it, he’d quit. He’d find work, and if he didn’t, he’d live off the land. He’d done it before. Ten more steps, and without any warning, what he’d feared happened. The corn suddenly began to collapse around him, and he slid toward the center of the bin, where he was quickly buried to his thighs. His legs felt as if they were encased in cement. He couldn’t move them one bit, and he fell forward, grabbing at the grain, which did nothing but cause more to cascade down around him. He straightened up and it was to his waist.
He yelled as loud as he could, “Shut the door, shut the damn door!”
He stared up at the hole he’d climbed through. Empty. He coughed, wheezed, and choked on the dust created by the moving grain.
He yelled, “Help!” as Moe yelled, “Shovel!”
He sank to his chest, his arms resting on top, futilely clawing at the kernels. It was like treading water; all he was doing was moving them around. The pressure and his descent increased with every exhalation. The corn acted like a vise, clamping down, squeezing tighter for every tiny move he made. The air gave off a distinct musty odor, and the scent made him sick. The corn was restless, relentless, like some freakish living mass that continued to build around him. It had happened so fast, if he became completely buried, how long would it take a six-foot-two-inch man to suffocate? Too long. It was to his neck now. Kernels touched his lips, slid inside his ears. He raised his chin, spit, and gasped. Seconds passed, the pressure on his chest was unyielding. He couldn’t inhale deeply anymore and became so light-headed, he saw stars like he’d hit his head. With his face tipped up, his breathing grew shallow, and he focused on the opening, that small square of blue sky, willing someone, anyone, to appear. Sweat and tears blurred his sight.
He wasn’t ready to die.
Chapter 2
Rae Lynn
Rae Lynn Cobb couldn’t help but notice the first digit missing on the pointer finger of her right hand. She studied it as she waited for Billy Doyle to push a Blue Whistler filled with pine gum up the crudely made ramp and into the wagon. Warren, her husband of seven years, stood in the back, urging him to go slow and easy. At twenty-five, Rae Lynn was sure she had more scars and marks on her body than someone who lived to a hundred. At least Warren was decent and kind, if a bit clumsy and careless. At least he’d seen fit to keep a business going while others struggled during these hard economic times. When Billy showed up, Rae Lynn figured the Doyles must be pretty bad off.
It was April 1932, three years since the stock market crash, three years of nothing but bad news in the papers, yet they’d been able to make a bit of money selling pine gum. So what if she got hurt now and again? It wasn’t like he did them things on purpose, not like when she’d been at the Magnolia Orphanage, where those in charge had a propensity for pinching the soft flesh of upper arms, leaving grape-size bruises if they detected any sassiness. And they’d all had their share of exhausting heat or knee-knocking cold while toiling in the basement laundry under the strict guidance of Mrs. Rankin. She would have the girls scrubbing, rinsing, wringing, and hanging everything from sheets to towels to tablecloths, not to mention every single person’s clothing who lived there, because as Mrs. Rankin often said, “Hard work builds character.”