Harvest

PAMELA DILLON

The five boys walked the gravel road to the Co-op Gas Bar, and then turned left and walked another four kilometres to the edge of town; the road lead east to Alvena and west to Liscomb. Yellow fields coloured every vista; the endless prairie sky took in the rest.

It was a late August afternoon and the boys were bored. They hopped the wood fence by Penner’s then traipsed through the wheat field making tracks through the high rows of grain.

“Bet I can make it to the tree line before you.” Larch smacked Milton and Ronnie on the back of their heads as he slithered between them. He turned around and yelled, “Can’t catch me, ya losers!”

They all took off, running together like a pack of wild dogs set upon a rabbit. Soon, Milton fell behind, then he slowed to a walk, stopped, and bent over. Ronnie turned back and jogged the short distance between them. He leaned down and slapped his hand between Milton’s shoulders.

“Got a stitch?” Milton nodded and grunted a few breaths.

Ronnie said, “Don’t matter. No point trying to catch up now. Larch always has to win, even if he cheats.”

Milton pushed his hair off his face. “He better hope ole Pig Face Penner doesn’t see him in those rows.” They stood side-by-side and watched the brothers run. Whoops of laughter carried across the field, and before long the three brothers were out of sight.

Ronnie pulled a rough strand of wheat from the ground, slipped it from its sheath and stuck the slim end into his mouth. Milton did the same. Ronnie cupped his hand around the end and pretended to light it. He tossed a non-existent match over his shoulder, “Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

Milton mimed a dramatic inhale. Ronnie laughed. Milton liked the sound of Ronnie’s laugh, it was unusual like an inside joke.

They walked alongside the fence separating the fields. Ronnie eyed Milton as he pulled up another handful of wheat, shook the dirt from the roots, and twisted the stalks together into a rough imitation of a sword. Milton did the same.

“I challenge you to a duel.” Ronnie held his wheat aloft.

Milton called, “En garde.” Thrusting the sheaves of wheat out in front. With his left hand at his waist he rushed forward and slashed at Ronnie’s torso.

“How dare you!” Ronnie said, in a fey British accent pirated from television.

They sliced each other mercilessly. Every time Ronnie hit Milton’s freckled arm he yelled, “Point.”

They advanced and retreated in a vicious dance, until Ronnie slapped Milton hard across the neck, small beads of blood rose to the surface of the jagged wound. Milton yelped, “Wait!” He pulled a pale blue handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his neck; he held it up, smudges of red marred the fabric. “I’m bleeding.”

“Oh no! I’m bleeding!” Ronnie mocked. He tore the cloth from Milton’s hand and shoved it down the front of his jeans.

“Gimme that!” Milton lunged at his waist.

Ronnie jumped back, his muscled arms held up triumphantly. Parroting Wyatt Earp, he said, “You gonna do somethin’? Or are you just gonna stand there and bleed?” He grinned and hitched his thumbs into his pants pockets and swiveled his hips in Milton’s direction.

Milton leapt at the boy. They whipped each other in a frenzy of long thrashes until the makeshift sword fell apart in Milton’s hand; he dropped the broken stems on the ground, turned, and ran as fast as he could through the rows. He glanced over his shoulder, hopeful.

Ronnie followed, his knees pumped up and down as he closed in. Then he tackled Milton and they fell together; their breathing came fast and ragged as they pushed and pulled at one another. They rolled together as one. The tall wheat snapped beneath them as it was flattened to the ground.

Milton grabbed the back of Ronnie’s T-shirt and tried to pull it up over the boy’s head, but Ronnie used his wrestling moves and slipped out of the fabric with ease.

Ronnie slapped his chest. “This what you want, boy?”

Milton rushed him. Ronnie flipped him effortlessly and with his whole weight he pressed Milton hard into the dirt. Milton could feel Ronnie’s heart pound; the beats matched his own. Their breath came in ragged gasps.

Ronnie said, “I got you now.”

“What are you going to do?” Milton taunted. He arched his back; he tried to break free but he collapsed to the ground with his right arm trapped underneath him.

Ronnie sat on top of him. His face flushed. Sweat dripped from his chin onto his chest. “I’m gonna make you my filly.” He snickered as he bounced up and down over Milton’s behind. “I’ll ride you into the sunset!”

Milton turned his face. “Get—off—of—me.” Each bounce an exaggerated breath.

Ronnie stopped, he grabbed a handful of Milton’s hair, and pulled his head back exposing the boy’s neck. He drew a slow finger along the cut on Milton’s neck. He showed Milton his finger smeared with blood then he put it in his mouth and sucked it clean. “Now, we’re blood brothers for life.”

“Ha! You’re more like a vampire.” Milton bared his teeth menacingly.

“Yeah?” Ronnie pressed his body against Milton; “Then I could take you right here—make you dead.” Milton struggled to rise, but Ronnie grabbed his hands and held them to the ground in his fists, his arms stretched over Milton’s, their legs entwined.

“Now you’re mine.” Ronnie growled into Milton’s ear. “I will devour you.” He opened his mouth wide and pressed his teeth against the welts on Milton’s neck.

Milton gasped, eyes wide.

The sun lit the tops of the wheat and turned it into a golden sea; thousands of seed heads swayed lazily in the breeze. Everything came at once: the glinting light, the rustle of the wind in the trees, the singing of the grasshoppers, and Ronnie’s warm breath against his skin. Ronnie’s breath—the weight of him; the soft wetness of his tongue juxtaposed with the hard edges of his teeth sent a shiver through Milton’s body. He closed his eyes. A strange heat rose in his belly that seemed a demand. “Do it. I want you to. Bite me.” He lifted his body and pushed his backside into Ronnie’s thighs.

“Damn!” Ronnie let go. He shoved Milton’s shoulders hard, pressing him toward the ground as he leaned back. “You’re just like a girl, got no fight in you.”

Milton lay motionless while his pulse reverberated in his ears. It was as if the wind had changed.

Ronnie stood. He spat on the ground, retrieved his crumpled shirt, and jerked it on over his head, thrusting his arms through the sleeves.

“Shit. I’m not going to bite you. You might have rabies or somethin’.” He pulled the damp handkerchief from his pants as if by magic. He tossed it at Milton and it floated to the ground, landing inches from his face.

Ronnie tapped Milton’s behind with the toe of his runner. “Guess you’re last.”

“Wait—” Milton struggled to his feet. “I’m coming with you!”

Ronnie laughed. “Forget it, I think I already won.” He turned and sprinted away.

“Ronnie!” Milton yelled, but the boy kept running. Milton roughly scrubbed the wheat chaff from his hair. His clothes were soiled; his underarms damp, something poked at his ribs so he took off his shirt and shook it, pale pieces of straw fell to the ground. His torso was crisscrossed with red marks and scratches, and he ran his palm over each one making it sting. He splayed the fingers of his right hand over his soft belly and felt a familiar ache, but now there was a hum inside—a frisson of excitement—as if every nerve was lit at once, and whatever it was it pulled him toward the boy racing across the field.

To the north, at the top of the hill, a farmer plowed the field; a dozen evenly spaced lines patterned the soil. Seagulls flew behind the tractor and then dipped toward the ground to land on the newly turned earth, they followed closely; a milky white flock that lifted and fell in cohesive formation. Milton watched Ronnie run the length of the split fence until he disappeared from view. Still, he stayed put.

The old mill’s whistle sounded at exactly five p.m. It was almost suppertime, soon Milton’s father would be leaving work for home. He spied his bloodstained handkerchief on the ground, snatched it up, and shoved it into his pocket.

He traipsed through the wheat field until he reached the fence, jumped over the rails and into the ditch and then to the roadside. His foot pained him and he kicked off one his shoes, shook it out freeing a stone, then slipped it back on just as an old Chevy pickup barreled up the road toward him.

The driver slowed, then stopped. It was Pig Face Penner. He gave Milton a once over. “Everything all right, boy?”

Milton nodded. “Yes, sir. I was just setting a rabbit snare is all.” He turned and pointed over his shoulder toward the ditch, the lie colouring his cheeks pink. Milton wouldn’t kill a living thing.

Spears of light pierced the canopy of the trees. The old man squinted and cleared his throat. “You catching them or fighten them?” He pointed to the scratches on Milton’s neck and arms. “Seems to me you been wrestling somethin’.” Milton touched the cut on his neck. Had the old man seen Ronnie? Had he seen them together? He looked down at his rumpled shirt and wiped the dirtiest mark. He feigned a smile, tilted his chin toward the silvered fence. “I fell into the ditch is all.” Milton had worked to steady his voice, all while his heart was thumping against his ribs like a wild thing caught in a trap. Milton rubbed his forearms, then shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets.

The old man flicked ash from his cigarette. “I’d keep to the road if I were you. You’re not doing too well in the ditches.”

Milton nodded, relieved. The truck sped off, leaving a dust cloud in its wake.

The sun tipped gently toward the horizon in a mélange of orange and red. Milton fingered the handkerchief in his pocket as he walked. His thoughts churned: first of Ronnie above him, the weight of

him over his hips, then of the feel of his teeth against his neck, Milton quivered in remembrance. He daydreamed he’d rolled onto his back, his arms up in surrender, then dared to imagine he’d pulled Ronnie down to his mouth. Milton stopped in the middle of the road until the high, sharp calls of a starling broke his reverie.

This road had a long history. Milton’s father, Leonard, once told him an ornithology research team from

the University came down this same road more than a decade ago, and they’d placed wooden posts in regular intervals along the edge of the field. To each post they’d attached a small angled box, and painted three numbers in dark green paint on the side. Each one was alike in height and dimension: a nesting box with one small circular opening in the front. “They were looking for bluebirds,” Leonard said, “likely checking the populations.”

For a while someone must have come to record the information, then they stopped.

Seemed one day the bluebirds just up and flew away. Starlings used the nest boxes instead; summer after summer they built nests in the numbered boxes, laid five or six small turquoise eggs, and hatched chicks that no one gave a damn about counting.

Milton waded through the long grass in the ditch and stopped at the first post. He tapped the top of the nesting box—numbered 113. He cocked his ear close to the opening, waited, then whistled softly. He lifted the wood top and peeked inside, the bottom was lined with dried grasses and mud and there were downy bits of fluff, but the nest was empty.

Milton pressed the damp handkerchief against his nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled of Ronnie, like something raw and broken open; it was intoxicating, organic. He carefully set the wadded cloth on the hollow nest then he shut the top slowly, thinking next time he’d show Ronnie his secret.

The wind picked up. The wheat stirred wildly, hypnotically, making a pleasant clicking sound. Milton climbed up the ditch, turned around, and searched for the place where they’d lain. He could just make out the dark, flattened space that interrupted the perfect rows. Reassured, he memorized the spot, their spot. He took off running for home carrying a bright hopefulness, a buoyant lightness in his steps that wasn’t there in the morning. ///

Two weeks later school started. When the bell rang at the end of day, Ronnie didn’t wait for Milton as he always had. He’d started walking home with the oldest Barnes girl, Emily. She was one grade below them in 9-C. A pretty blonde-haired girl that the other boys admired.

When Milton finally caught up with them, Ronnie stared through him and directed his smiles toward Emily’s eager face. Milton fell back. He walked in step with their shadows, his gaze caressed the back of Ronnie’s head as he eavesdropped on their conversation, waiting for an opening that never came.

The following day Milton rose early. He ran all the way to school so he wouldn’t have to see Ronnie and Emily talking and holding hands. At end-of-day, he burst through the door and sprinted through the yard carrying his textbooks like a shield. Milton marched home alone, stroking his hurt feelings, haunted by the thought of Emily taking his place; his heart as weakened as Ronnie’s attentions.

Milton supposed that most people believed bad things happened in the dark, but he knew the most painful things happened in the bright light of day, when you felt safest—often right in front of your eyes with nothing to obscure the truth—this was how it was with love.

Weeks passed like this.

On Sunday mornings the Missionary Alliance Church on Colony Street rang its bell at nine o’clock as Milton slow-walked down the long farm road; until he turned away from the village. He stopped at the bottom of the hill. This was the way he made his remembrance: standing silently on the road, watching the wind rustle the amber-coloured field until it died away and the seed heads bowed toward the ground as if in prayer.

Later, a storm would blow in and smash the wheat down in large whirling circles, as though a giant hand had pressed itself upon the earth in blessing. During the harvest, the spot where they’d lain vanished beneath the thresher.