The Summer Corn

He stood at the knee high stone fence, looking over the rows of sun-baked corn stalks, wary to look into her face. The dried tassels and brittle leaves burned by the drought of summer transfixed him. Her eyes had that deep set, probing expression that, after all these intervening years, still unsettled him. If he could keep his gaze on the stunted corn, he would keep clear of her persuasions.

 “We are having a hunt next week for a few troublesome coyotes,” she said. “You could come over and join us.”

“I’m not a hunter,” he said. “Never could get the hang of it.”

“Still, you could come for a visit. Now that you’ve come back to the old homestead.”

He did not answer her. He was recalling from his youth the thick drifts of summer corn, polished green stalks nodding in the wind and spreading toward the low hills. These fields were beautiful then, he thought.

“My son takes to it easily,” she said. “His father wouldn’t – or couldn’t – teach him, so it was left to me to show him the basics.”

Off to his left, he could see the cluster of farm buildings, a weathered barn and two-storey red brick house that was sheltered on two sides by thick lilac bushes. He looked toward the western sky and the long ridges of cloud that were ready to take fire from the lowering sun.

“Don’t be too anxious to go,” she said. “It’s still early.”

“I shouldn’t stay.”

“But you made a special point to come by to see me, and now after such a brief time you want to be off again. You do make a girl wonder. It’s hardly fair, do you think?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t intending to stay for long.”

“For long? We haven’t seen each other for long. That’s what long is.”       

She sat on an angle on the stone fence. She spread her arms backward and splayed her palms over a thick slab to balance herself. She had lost her shapeliness, he noticed. Her waist had thickened and her face had filled out. He remembered her slender agility from those early days; she moved with a physical grace and audacity that charmed him, even when she cut at him with her inexplicable cruelties. Still, her eyes kept their intense clarity, jewel-green and lucid, and now they looked straight into him. With great effort he looked away along the line of the stone fence.

“Very well, I won’t try to force you to stay. But come over one day next week,” she said. “You can manage that, can’t you?”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea –“

“Why do you do that?” she said. Her tone was even, controlled. “You get into a thing and then partway through you want to turn around and walk away.”

He shook his head weakly.

“Can’t you see that? You’re unable to offer any reasons. You know I’m telling you the truth.”

“Okay. I can do it.” He smiled. “Next week. I’ll come over.”

Half turning, he held his hand toward her to lift her away from the fence. She leaned forward and before he could move back, she eased off the stone ledge and moved her hand to his lower right arm. She squeezed his bicep to steady herself and suddenly moved her body against his right leg and torso. On impulse, he  reached his free hand behind her warm neck.

“Oh, my,” she said.

They walked together along a path at the edge of the field. Sunlight splintered against grainy clouds and raised an orange glow over the southern ridge. He dragged his fingers over his eyes.

At the same time the sharp report of rifle fire rolled over the hills towards them. The sound seemed to coil around and hold him.

“It’s my son,” she said. “He’s found a coyote, most like.”

She stopped, then reached out her right hand and laid it across his left arm. She turned so that her body pressed lightly against him.

“They’re getting bolder now. We’ve lost several lambs to them this season.”

“They’re hungry,” he said. “That’s all they want, a ready meal. It’s nature’s way.”

“Really?”

She eased his head toward hers and began kissing him. Her mouth was taut and eager, and she kissed him in frantic little gasps. Three more rifle shots tumbled down from the ridge but she ignored them, and he took no alarm from their closeness. She kissed him again, softly now, several times, her face warm and tender in the delicate light.

“What’s this, then?” she said. “This wasn’t in the works. Not if you ask me, it wasn’t.”

He glanced at her eyes to gauge her reaction, wondering would he find pleasure or guile or perhaps regret there. But he could not read her emotion.

He looked beyond the rows of dry, brittle corn and then toward the ridge from where the rifle shots originated. A tremor slid over his shoulders. They began walking along the path again, she a few paces in the lead.

“We planted these fields this spring with such promise, “ she said. “The weather was moist and warm. Now look at it. Even the crows won’t find a kernel worth eating.”

A quarter mile along the path he saw her son unfastening the gate latch as he came out of the field beyond. She waved to him and called his name, and he waited as they came near to him.

He wore faded coveralls, scuffed, low cut boots, and a wide brimmed felt hat. His wide set dark eyes showed neither welcome nor warmth as his mother introduced him.

As they walked together, the boy held his gun loosely in the crook of his arm. He chatted amiably with the man, yet moved his eyes alertly over the nearby hillocks.

A groundhog burst from a secret burrow and skittered along a grassy knoll. The animal paused, then turned on his hind legs to sniff the air. The boy raised his rifle and with a fluid, controlled shot sent the groundhog careening into the grass. The man saw the proud smile light up the boy’s face.

“Go on ahead and tell your father that Mr. Wallace is staying for supper,” she called.

For a moment, Wallace wanted to turn back. Her invitation was part of a trap, he felt, and he could not free himself from it now that her son, and soon, her husband, were informed.

“It won’t be anything fancy,” she said. “Some cold meat and salads, but it will take the edge off.” She indicated the rows of wilted corn. “I’d like to offer you some sweet cobs, fresh picked …” She sighed. “Living on the farm, you go with what nature provides.”

“Yes,” he said.

Near the farmyard, a grey heron flew toward a shallow, scummy pond and landed near a mat of dried algae that fringed the shoreline.

“You would have loved the red-winged blackbirds singing and strutting there in the spring,” she said. “The pond was full, frogs complaining like old soldiers on campaign.”

She led him into the house. He stood in the parlour and looked on the ageing furniture, a settee with fading grey upholstery, two heavy oak chairs, a sturdy walnut cupboard against the west wall, varnished trim around the windows.

She invited him to sit in one of the chairs. “Excuse me for a moment. I’ll pull a couple of things from the frig. And a drink? Would you prefer a beer, glass of wine?” She smiled at him.

“Yes, a beer would be lovely. Thank you.”

Her son brought him a bottle of cold beer. The lad sat on the edge of the settee, restless. He seemed to be searching in his mind for something to say. Then he said, “Do you hunt, sir?”

“No, never have.”

The boy looked into the worn maroon carpet. He tapped his fingers along the wood of the arm rest. “I’m all for gettin’ rid of the coyotes when they’re causing trouble.”

Wallace thought of the groundhog, what trouble it might have caused. 

He sipped on his beer, and silence stood between them. A moment later she came into the room. She carried a glass of wine in her left hand.

“We’ll have something quick and easy. You won’t be late in getting home again. Do you like scalloped potatoes? I have some left over from yesterday.”

“Yes, of course. That’s fine.”

She spoke to her son. “You go and clean up, now. And fetch your father from the barn. Tell him supper is a little early tonight. Now get along, thank you.”

She watched her son shuffle along the veranda in the front of the house. Then she turned to face Wallace. She drew herself tall and rigid. She was staring at him with wide glistening green eyes. She folded her arms across her stomach, and the late afternoon light in the room made the green of her eyes compelling.

“I want you to come next week. On Thursday. I’ll be alone all day.”

“It’s…”

“Say you will come. Please do.”                   

She looked quickly out the window toward the barn. Then she came near to him, grasping each of his arms and looking hungrily into his eyes. Their clarity held him firm. “We could make it just as good as before.”

He tried to speak but could utter no words. He listened for the sound of footsteps along the veranda. She brushed her mouth against his cheek and down to the side of his mouth. He saw beyond her gleaming hair the barnyard pond and the heron, stationary at the water’s edge.

“Kiss me,” she whispered. “You know you want to kiss me. Do it…”

He lowered his mouth to hers. But before he could touch her, he heard the faint scrunching of boots over  gravel, then the nearer clunk of footsteps along the wooden boards of the veranda. She drew away from him, running her fingers over his face and down his arm.

Her son came in the room. He was carrying an oblong tray, about the size of a cookie sheet.  A dozen polished arrow heads lay in three rows over a purple cloth. “I thought Mr. Wallace might like to see my collection.” He smiled.

“Perhaps after supper,” she said. “Is your father coming?”

“Yes, he was in the harness room. Said he’d be here straightaway.”

“Let me see your arrowheads,” Wallace said.

“It’s stuff he has found back of the farm,” she said. “It’s not worth anything, lord knows, beyond curiosity value. Will you have another beer?”

He declined her offer and walked toward her son. The youngster held the tray for inspection like a hotel waiter offering a selection of sweets to a regular guest.

“Some are in pretty good shape,” the lad said. “But some are worn badly. Do you think this might be a spear head?” He held forth a shaped point larger than the others, about the size of a playing card.           

“It may be,” Wallace said. He turned the flint in his hand. “That one looks like a fishing head.” He replaced the spear point on the tray and lifted out a smaller head. Delicate serrations ran along each side.

“I thought so, too,” the boy said. “There may have been an ancient river back there. Or an old lake bed where the tribe hunted in the summer …”

His mother said, “Take them away now. There’ll be time for that later, another day perhaps.”

Her son lowered his head. He was stung but she did not see it. She seemed to be held taut, like a spring on a windup toy, somewhere between her wine glass and Wallace’s questioning gaze.

From the doorway her son said, “Here’s dad now, he’s coming now.”

The lad moved back from the door, and then it seemed as if his older double suddenly appeared there. His father was about forty, with broad shoulders and wide sincere smile. His thick black hair shone damply at his temples and forehead. He’s washed himself at the barn faucet, Wallace thought. The father reached a thick hand toward Wallace to introduce himself. “Welcome to our table, Mr Wallace. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” He turned to his wife and smiled.

“We’re in no hurry,” his wife said. “But we can go in now. It’s cold plate tonight. It just needs setting out the dishes.”

“Early or late, I’m always ready for a good chow-down,” the father said. “Which way did you come round?”

“We walked alongside the corn fields,” she said. “And met Alan coming down from the maple woods.”

“See any coyotes?” the father said to his son.           

“Just an over-bold groundhog,” the mother said. “Alan, take your arrowheads away now. No, there was nothing out there worth hunting.” She looked at Wallace; a wisp of a smile curled her mouth.

“It’s the heat,” the father said. “The heat and the drought, driving the animals to cover somewhere.”

The son placed the tray of arrowheads on a shelf of the side table and then the mother led them out of the parlour and along a small hallway to the dining room beyond. The twilight outside the house slipped through the branches of a lilac bush beside the window and spread a rosy hue over the heavy walnut table and chairs. The father switched on the ceiling light.

The mother went to the kitchen, and returned shortly carrying a tray of condiments. She had set the table with slices of cold ham, scalloped potatoes, a green salad and a fresh bakery loaf. An antique glass pitcher of cold water stood in the middle of the table, and beside it, a matching pitcher of iced tea. From the head of the table the father passed the tray of meat; the son asked around the table for preferred beverage, then he poured from either pitcher.

She spooned small portions of potatoes and salad onto her plate; she did not speak. The father spoke of the failing corn. “It may be too late for it to recover now. Even if we have a stiff rain that lasts the week.”

Wallace ate in silence and listened to a light breeze rustling through the lilac bush. The waning light was a charged, dramatic wine red. From a paddock beside the barn a horse whinnied.

The father took a drink of water. “Did you enjoy the spuds? They’re a specialty of the house.”

Wallace nodded. “Very good. It shows, a woman’s touch.”

“The ham was ours too,” she said. “That’s one good thing about living off the land. You can always eat, even in the worst of times.”   

The sound of her voice, from the far end of the table, jolted him. She looked at him in a calm, penetrating gaze. He nodded vaguely. He wanted to rise from the table and walk into the fiery evening light, away from their obsessions with hunting and parched crops and long vanished woodland foragers. But her eyes, hungry and edged with light mockery, held him firm in his chair. Taking what nature provided, she had said. The horse whinnied again from the paddock and he was alarmed at a sudden moment of pain. He would not leave, he knew, until she dismissed him, like an unmindful gardener sweeping aside a wilted plant. And he would come to her next week, and the days following, as she wanted, as he had done long ago, when the corn was full and ripe over the hills. Even in summer drought, she might have added.   

End

Author’s Biography

The author lives in Ontario, where in his rec moments he blows Beatles and blues on his Hohner harmonica. His short fiction has appeared in MysteriousInk[UK], 50wordstories[6], AgnesandTrue, among others