The Last Harvest(10)

We all freeze in place, looking at each other anxiously. It’s usually best to play along. She’ll remember eventually, and when she does, she’ll take to her bed. To be honest, I’m not sure which is worse.

“Do you need a corsage … for Ali?” she asks as she moves her food around.

I flinch at the memory. Last year, after the game, I was going to take Ali to the dance, finally tell her how I felt. Instead, I spent it in the wheat alone, mourning my dad, thinking I’d just killed that halfback, and cursing the day I’d ever been born.

I glance into the living room. Even though the lights are off, I swear I can still see the faint outline where the metal crucifix used to hang.

I force myself to swallow another bite and glance at the clock on the wall: 9:06 P.M. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

“Your dad sure is working late these days, but don’t worry, we’ll be there in time for kickoff. He wouldn’t miss that.”

“Why can’t anyone say it?” Jess drops her silverware on the table with a loud clang. “You know what tonight is, right? It’s the one-year anniversary. Can we at least take Dad’s chair away now? It’s not like he’s ever coming back. He’s dead, Mom. He went crazy and now we’re paying the price.”

Noodle’s smile melts away. Mom looks down at her plate.

I’m partly relieved for the interruption, but I can’t believe she said that.

I glare at her.

“What?” Jess wads up her napkin.

As I look down at the flesh-colored vegetables and meat oozing with gravy, I feel sick to my stomach. I poke at my plate with my fork a few times and then ask if I can be excused.

“Of course, honey,” Mom says with a weary smile. “You’ll need your rest for the big game tomorrow.” She starts to get up to clear my plate, but I carry it to the sink on my own. I can’t look at her right now. It hurts too much.

“I don’t want you waiting on me for supper anymore.” I walk away before getting a response.

I make it to the foot of the stairs when Noodle comes crashing into me from behind with a hug. “You’re good, Clay. Don’t forget that.”

I pull her around and hold her tight. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but somehow it’s exactly what I need.

*

MY ROOM is stifling.

Who am I kidding? This house is stifling.

Peeling back the garbage bag, I open up my window and take in a deep breath of fresh air. My eyes automatically zero in on the Neely ranch. No lights—nothing but dead space.

All I can think about is Ali leaning into my truck, her fingertips almost grazing the top of my thighs, my zipper. I feel stupid for thinking it was real. No way she’d even look at me, let alone ask me to meet her at the breeding barn. Maybe Miss Granger’s right. Maybe it’s the sleeping pills.

I grab one of the bottles from my bedside table and read the side effects. Warning: This medication may cause drowsiness. Sure as hell hope so. In some cases this may cause delusions, check. Tremors, check. Hallucinations, check. And severe mood disorders. Awesome.

“Thanks for nothing, Dr. Perry.” I gather up all the pill bottles and empty them into the toilet, flushing them before I have a chance to change my mind.

Stripping down to my boxers, I climb into bed. The sheets feel clammier than my skin.

I left my music on the combine, but I’m not about to go back out there and get it. So what if I have to lie here all night? It’s not like it’s going to kill me. I can still read.

I pull out the family Bibles and farm ledgers stashed under my bed.

At first, I was looking for clues, but now it’s just habit. The last few weeks of his life, Dad couldn’t stop poring over these books. And when he didn’t have his nose buried in one of them, he was down at the Preservation Society looking through the archives.

I feel like the answer’s here, staring me right in the face, but I just can’t see it. The only thing remotely interesting is the family tree. That night, Dad kept talking about the sixth generation … the seed. It must have something to do with the family tree.

I trace my finger across the names.

Thomas Tate came here and settled this farm in 1889. So I guess he’s the first. It passed on to his son Benjamin Tate in 1919. And then to his son Lyle Tate in 1950. Then Heath Tate in 1979. My dad, Neil Tate, in 2000.

Which leaves me. I’m the sixth. I just wish I knew what it meant. There’s a line drawn next to my name, stretching out to the margins, with “L.A.W. 11:26” written in my dad’s chicken scrawl. I’ve gone over every corresponding Bible passage, every possible acronym I can think of and I still can’t make heads or tails of it. There were lots of entries for L.A.W. in the checkbook the last month of my dad’s life. A hundred dollars here, fifty dollars there. When I asked Mom about it, she got so agitated, I had to stop.

Written around the perimeter of the page, in a circular pattern, is a passage from Exodus 32—The Golden Calf.

“I will make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and I will give your descendants all this land I promised them, and it will be their inheritance forever.”

As hard as I try to piece it all together, I can’t help thinking maybe it’s just the ramblings of a crazy person. Nothing more. Maybe I should be thankful I don’t understand it, because understanding it would mean I’m crazy, too.