The Last Harvest(32)
With everything that’s going on I feel stupid even thinking about it, but I can’t help wondering what will happen with Ali tonight. Will she just start talking to me now that I’m “one of them”? Could it be that simple? And how the hell am I going to get their marks on video? If I go in too eager, they’re going to be suspicious. Worse than that, what if they accept me, no questions asked, and try to brand me? Miss Granger didn’t prepare me for anything like that.
By the time we pull into town, the pit of dread in my stomach has turned to straight-up doom. Main Street is packed with cars on both sides. Everyone who’s anybody is here. It’s one of the few events put on by the Preservation Society that’s open to the public. In the old days, it started out as a fair, a place for people to trade their goods when the crops came in, but now it’s more like a carnival.
There’s music, some old-fashioned games, but the big attraction is the Hell House. Midland Baptist puts it on every year. It’s like a haunted house, only they lead you through a bunch of huge canvas tents presenting little plays on whatever hot topics they think are pulling people away from the church. Meth. Abortion. Gay sex. Satanism. Video games. It’s really just a chance for people to show off, get some attention. I was in it when I was a kid; I got to play a skeleton in the afterlife. It was pretty fun, jumping out at people and scaring the bejeezus out of them. Another grand tradition around here.
I let out a shaky breath as I get out of the truck. I’ve kept my family in seclusion, away from everyone for the past year, and for what? Here I am dragging them straight into the Devil’s lair. I can’t believe I’m spying on the Preservation Society for the Catholic Church, gathering evidence to sanction an exorcism. It sounds f*cking crazy, even to me.
Just as I’m thinking about getting everybody back in the truck, hightailing it out of here, Noodle grabs my hand. She doesn’t even flinch at how sweaty it is.
“Doesn’t it look so pretty?” She squeezes my hand, like she knows how tough this is for me. “Just like a fairy tale.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard.
It’s all lit up with gas lamps and jack-o’-lanterns, a maze made from bales of hay set up on the front lawn. Just like last year, and the year before that. Probably looked this way a hundred years ago. Hardly anything ever changes around here.
I was so ticked off last year when they went ahead with the homecoming game. And after I nearly killed that kid, they went ahead with the Harvest Festival. But this town has a way of turning a blind eye like nobody’s business. After news of my dad’s slaughter spread, a handful of reporters descended on Midland like a bunch of turkey vultures, but they couldn’t find a single person in this town to give them an interview. Mom felt real grateful, but it weirded me out more than anything. What did they have to hide?
A string of little kids rush in front of us, their faces painted up like tigers and princesses, laughing their heads off as they disappear into the maze. Reminds me of why I’m here. If there’s even a nail’s head of truth in all this Devil business, I have to do everything I can to stop it. For my dad. For my family. For the future.
While all the other guests have to walk around the main house and use the side gate to get to the back lawn, we’re Tates. The founding families use the front door. It’s our privilege. It’s what’s expected. Even stepping over the threshold feels like a commitment, like I’m a part of this now, whether I like it or not.
I notice Jess having some trouble with the clasp of her necklace.
“I can help,” I say as I step forward.
She lets me.
As I’m securing the locket around her neck I say, “Keep an eye on Noodle for me.”
Noodle looks back at me like she’s about to give me a piece of her mind, but I give her a sly wink and she simmers down. She gets it.
Noodle takes Jess’s hand and leads the way down the long hall toward the festivities. Mom follows, clutching her purse in front of her like it’s the last life preserver on the Titanic.
I keep my eyes trained in front of me, but I can feel my ancestors and the rest of the founding families staring at me from the portraits lining the hall. Even though they’re trapped behind glass, it feels like they’re watching … waiting.
With every step, my heart’s pounding double-time.
As we head out the French doors lining the back of the building, I notice the window’s already been fixed, like it never happened. For a second I wonder if it ever did. I wonder if this is how Dad felt at the end, questioning every little thing, but when Mr. Neely steps forward to greet me, bracing my elbow with a firm grip, I know it was real.
“Welcome home, Clay,” he says. There’s a sanctimonious glint in his eyes as he leads me to the edge of the patio so everyone can get an eyeful.
I glance around nervously. They’re waiting to see what’ll happen next. Even though I hate myself for doing it, I reach out and shake Mr. Neely’s hand. And it’s almost like I can feel the entire community take a deep breath.
As if on cue, the bluegrass band strikes up a raucous tune. Couples start two-stepping; kids are running around all high on Kool-Aid and sheet cake. Strands of tiny white lights are strung overhead, twinkling like low-lying stars.
Mrs. Neely quickly ushers my mom over to the other women of the founding families. They seem to welcome her back into the fold without a hitch, but there’s something about Mom, a distance, like she’s not all connected. I wonder if they can see it, too. God, I hope not.