The Last Harvest(23)

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Let me clean her up first,” she says. “Can you get a nightgown from my bedroom, please?”

Reluctantly, I back away from the bathroom and make my way down the hall. My footsteps sound spongy as my boots sink into the shag carpeting.

I pass a utility closet and a small room stacked to the hilt with file boxes. The last door on the left has a bed in it. It’s covered in an old-fashioned bedspread, like those doilies Mom used to make us use under our drinks when we still hung out in the living room.

As soon as I step over the threshold, it feels like all the air is being squeezed from my lungs. The walls are covered in crucifixes. There must be a hundred of them—all different shapes and sizes. Some are crudely pieced together with string, others ornately carved. Where did she get all these? I close my eyes, trying to shake the memory of Dad marching off into the wheat clutching the crucifix to his chest, but the image seems to be etched into the back of my eyelids.

I look around the room trying to find something to focus on, anything other than the crucifixes.

There’s a photo next to Miss Granger’s bed—a girl probably around Noodle’s age, with a man and a woman, maybe her parents. Palm trees, sunburned skin, but no one’s smiling. It makes me uncomfortable, like it’s something I’m not supposed to see. There’s a well-worn Bible next to the pillow, a passage underlined in ink, with handwritten additions and notes.

I lean over to read it in the dim light.

“‘Blessed is the seed,’ the lord said unto them. ‘The seed will be chosen and he shall be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves upon the earth. The blood of the golden calf will set forth ten sacrifices. Only the chosen one will be allowed to care for our lord. To usher in a new age.’”

What the hell kind of Bible is this? I’m looking for a copyright when Miss Granger calls from the bathroom, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I stand up ramrod straight at the sound of her voice.

“The nightgowns are in the dresser, bottom drawer,” she says.

“Sure, okay.” My voice comes out strained as I force myself to move on, to focus on something else.

On top of her dresser, there’s a small, framed photo of Miss Granger with some old man in a fancy robe and a weird hat, maybe some kind of priest. Looks recent. I knew she was Catholic, but I had no idea how religious she was. Come to think of it, I think Mrs. Wilkerson was Catholic, too. She was a sweet lady, but kept to herself. I wonder what happened to her.

Crouching down, I open the bottom drawer. It’s filled with perfectly folded white linen garments. I pick one up. It’s a simple long sheath; I guess it’s a nightgown. As I’m getting ready to close the drawer, I catch a glimpse of black lace buried beneath the other gowns. I pull it out by the thin strap; it’s a sheer one-piece, like something you’d see in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

“Did you find it?”

“Be right there,” I say as I bury the black lace under the gowns and close the drawer with a little too much force. I shouldn’t be in here looking through her things.

I stand, and I swear I can feel every Jesus from every crucifix glaring down at me … judging me.

Clutching the nightgown, I escape the room.

I make my way down the hall, back toward the bathroom, but the shag carpeting seems to swallow my every step, the hall stretching out in front of me like an endless corridor.

I hear whispers, a slight trickling of water.

As soon as I reach the bathroom, I freeze.

Ali’s cheerleading uniform is wadded up in the sink. Miss Granger’s back is turned to me; she’s using a wet washcloth to wipe down Ali’s body. She squeezes the excess water from the cloth on Ali’s shoulder blade. I track a droplet of water as it trickles over Ali’s breast. Just the sight of it brings the same overpowering feeling I had in the breeding barn. It feels sick and twisted, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

I must make some kind of a noise because Miss Granger looks back at me with the strangest expression.

I think we both know we could get in a lot of trouble for this.

She holds out her hand. “The nightgown, please.”

I give it to her. “I … I’m so sorry, I—”

And without another word, Miss Granger pushes the door closed.





15

PRESSING MY forehead into the cool wood grain of the door, I whisper, “You’re fine, Clay. Just pull it together.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Desperate for a distraction, I step into the living room. It’s just a text from Dale. “Not too late to change your mind. I could really use a wingman.” There’s a picture of him photobombing two girls at the Quick Trip. No doubt Laura Dixon’s cousins. They look bored out of their minds.

Jesus, Dale, not now. I put my phone away.

Pacing the room, I notice how sparse the furnishings are. No knickknacks or personal items. Just an old brown couch covered in another one of those doily things, a couple of pillows, two hardback chairs, and a coffee table, all situated around a wall where the TV should be.

The wall has a crisp sheet tacked to it, like it’s covering something up. I peek underneath. I’m expecting a weird painting or crumbling plaster, but not this.