The Last Harvest(49)

I know he’s got something to say to me, but I’m not about to give him any help.

We pull into the empty lot. I get out and start to close the door when he says, “That stunt you pulled with the bull, making him bow to you. It doesn’t mean shit. You’re nothing but a dead end to her. We don’t even need you on the council.”

“I think your dad has a different take on all that,” I say, drumming my fingers on the door.

“My dad’s an old fool. Besides, Tate blood’s not hard to come by in this town.”

“What’d you say?”

“You heard me.”

I lean in. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but if you come near Noodle or Jess, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

A smirk lights his face. “You still don’t know, do you?”

I reach in to grab him but he jams on the gas, fishtailing out of the lot and onto Main Street.

I get in my truck and check my phone. No calls or texts from Miss Granger. Maybe she got what she needed and she’s busy making plans for the exorcism, or maybe it’s all in her head, some f*cked-up fantasy. All I know is I feel like that beat-up pinball game down at the rec center. I keep running around, reacting to everything, and maybe that’s exactly what they want me to do. Maybe I’m playing right into their hands and I don’t even know it.

I take a deep breath, running my hand over the dash. This was my dad’s truck, his dad’s before that. I refuse to let that last memory of him in the breeding barn ruin everything we had. Like Noodle said, you choose what you want to remember and I choose good, but that doesn’t mean I turn a blind eye, either. I have questions that need answering. My dad always told me in times of trouble, the answer was in the land.

I go home to the wheat.

Where I don’t have to think.

I don’t have to dream.

All I have to do is plow.





32

THE MOON is full and red, like a bloated tick. I hear heavy breath, discarded wheat stems being crushed underfoot … and a song. A nursery rhyme from long ago. It lures me deep into the wheat and when I finally see the source of the music, I freeze in place. It feels like my heart might burst with fear, with awe, with reverence. The bull stamps forward, with Noodle on his back. He isn’t bucking and kicking for control; he’s as docile as a pony. Noodle strokes his head as she sings her counting song. She’s barefoot and wearing the white eyelet dress she wore to Dad’s funeral, her hair’s down, but there’s something dark and wet on the side of her head. Noodle leans down to hug the bull’s neck, and that’s when I see the blood spurting from its throat. The bull staggers forward into a kneeling position and when Noodle sits up, I realize it’s not Noodle at all, but Tyler.

“Look,” Tyler says with a grin. “I got him to kneel, too.”

*

I WAKE with a jolt on the moving harvester. I slam on the brake and check the gauges.

I’d like to think I was only asleep for a few minutes, but the tank’s nearly empty. It must’ve been running for hours.

I scramble out of the cab to see how much damage I caused, but I’m still in the same patch of wheat as when I started.

I can’t understand it. I’ve heard of sleepwalking, but sleep-plowing? And it looks like I’ve been going over the same pattern in the wheat over and over again, like a crazy person.

As I head back to the house, I keep listening for hooves in the wheat. I know it was only a dream, but it seemed so real to me. My heart aches. It’s more than melancholy … more than dread … it almost feels inevitable, like the first frost has settled into my blood. Trying to rub the goose bumps from my arms, I head inside.

I walk as quietly as possible into the living room and pull a quilt over Mom. I realize she’s only pretending to be asleep, but I don’t have the strength to deal with her tonight … or the flies.

I check in on Noodle. She’s all snuggled in. Still no sign of her gross doll. I’m walking by Jess’s room when I see a shadow moving back and forth under her door, like she’s pacing.

“Jess?” I knock. The pacing stops. I don’t know what to say to her. I know she’s probably still upset about what happened at the Harvest Festival. I keep thinking I should tell her about what happened to Jimmy, but I don’t want to make things worse.

“You’re up late,” I say, and then shake my head. That was a stupid thing to say. “I mean … I just want you to know, I’m here for you. If you need to talk, or anything.”

She doesn’t answer, but I can hear her breathing, like she’s got her face pressed right against the keyhole.

I start to leave and then double back. “Oh, and I wanted to give you this.” I pull the wad of money from my back pocket and slide it halfway under her door. “There’s a hundred and eighty-two bucks there. For those clothes you wanted. And for the record, I don’t care if you cut holes in them.”

I wait for a reply—a thanks, a f*ck you, anything, but all she does is pull the money in.

It brings an unexpected smile to my face. That’s a start.

“’Night, Jess.” I back away from her door to go to my room.

I don’t want to sleep, because I don’t want to dream, so I sit by the window staring out over the wheat. I glance down to see Hammy doing the exact same thing.