The Sowing Season Read online

  He scrambled to accept the branch, leaning next to Noah on one end of the lineup, wondering what it would feel like for this to be the most natural thing in the world.

  A warm breeze blew wisps of hair across Hannie’s face. She brushed them aside. “Remember the time your father built that giant slide out of hay bales? You kids played on that thing for hours.”

  “It was almost two stories high.” Noah laughed. “It’s a miracle nobody died.”

  Gerrit tensed. Noah blanched and glanced over at him. Gerrit gripped the rail, staring down at the land at the bottom of the hill, wondering how one place could hold so much joy and pain. A moment passed, Noah’s words suspended in the air as if waiting to see what Gerrit would do with them.

  “I liked it when you guys played in the barn,” he finally said. “Liked hearing you laugh.”

  A hesitant, hopeful smile crept over Noah’s face. “Except when we stole your Pepsi out of the vaccine fridge.”

  Gerrit pretended to scowl. “Except for that.”

  The truth was if he could go back, he’d buy a whole separate fridge to stock with Pepsi for his kids to have whenever they wanted. He’d build a hundred hay slides.

  “I always used to wish you liked Sprite.” Evi’s voice was soft. Thoughtful. “That was my favorite.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  She frowned. “No kidding.”

  “Evi,” Hannie said.

  Gerrit held up a hand. “No, it’s okay.” The thudding of his heart was like pounding fence posts in the back forty. “I’m sorry, Evi. I wasn’t a good father.”

  No one disagreed. His confession staggered down the hill, tumbling over rocks and trees and coming to rest on the site of his transgressions.

  When she answered, he almost missed it. “You weren’t a father at all,” she whispered.

  His blood—or was it the past?—roared in his ears. “Maybe it’s not too late.”

  Her head snapped up. “Maybe it is.”

  Noah stood between them, looking back and forth. “Come on, Evi. He’s trying.”

  She slammed a hand on the rail. “Who cares?”

  Noah moved away, unsure. “I care.”

  “He can’t just decide to be our dad again.”

  Hannie reached for Evi. “Honey, your father always—”

  Evi shook her off. “The only thing he always did was let me down.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Gerrit’s voice was hardened with dread.

  Hannie stared at him. He swallowed. That had come out wrong.

  “I mean—”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me.” Evi faced him. “I’m not the one who told his own daughter he wished she were a boy.”

  Gerrit flinched. He remembered that day all too well. Apparently Evi did, too. But that wasn’t exactly what he’d said. He’d been desperate for help in the parlor after losing yet another hired hand, and he had asked her to pitch in. She’d refused. Said she didn’t want anything to do with the farm. He’d let his anger get the best of him.

  Why did he always throw words around like they wouldn’t hurt?

  She headed for the door, and he moved to block her retreat. “What do you want me to do? Please.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I don’t want you to do anything. I just think . . . I don’t know.” She drew a shaky breath. “When Uncle Luke died, I think maybe you did, too.”

  She stepped to the side to go around him, but he held out his arms to stop her. He searched her face, desperate to find something, anything that would give him hope. He scoured his brain, desperate for words to make her stay. The right words this time.

  He gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “Forgive me. Please.” The words were raw and ragged, tripping over the lump in his throat. “Things are going to be different.”

  Surely they would. They had to. Nothing else mattered.

  She looked down as a tear escaped, then pulled away so that his hands fell to his sides.

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  Her voice was hollow. Lost. He reached for her, but she pushed past him, opened the sliding door, and disappeared into the house.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  Gerrit scanned the sky and took a deep breath. It smelled like grass and sunshine with a hint of apples and spice from the pie he’d baked that morning. Only a single cloud loomed on the horizon, the shape and color of an elephant.

  He narrowed his eyes at it. “You stay over there.”

  Daisy tilted her head to look at him, tongue lolling out.

  He sniffed the air again. “It doesn’t smell like rain.”

  Satisfied, he checked the yard for dog droppings one last time and returned the shovel to the shed. The ribs were already on the grill, having been marinated overnight and rubbed to within an inch of their lives shortly before going on the rack. The ziti was in the oven. He’d gotten up early and gone to town for two cases of Sprite from Olsen’s and another bunch of asparagus so he could wrap the one he already had in prosciutto and leave the second one meat-free. Everything was going well.

  Shrieks and laughter came from over at George’s house. Must be half a dozen cars parked over there. Two jacked-up trucks. A minivan. A red Jetta. Gerrit huffed. George couldn’t come up with his own ideas. Had to steal his, just like he’d stolen everything else. Then in a couple of weeks, when his granddaughter was born, he’d probably throw an even bigger bash.

  Well, his party was going to be just as good as George’s. Even better. Surely his food would be.

  Hannie called from the house, “You ready to flip the ribs?”

  He checked his watch. A little after three. “I’ll look at them.”

  There were a hundred and one ways to barbecue ribs, according to Chef Kellan, but Gerrit had chosen a fairly traditional method. The trick would be to keep an eye on the meat so it wouldn’t dry out.

  He made his way around the house and climbed the three steps to the back deck, where Evi and Noah were hanging out. The tantalizing smell of barbecued pork was already seeping out from under the hood of his grill.

  Evi pulled her phone from her ear and slid it in her pocket. “Travis is on his way.”

  Noah smiled. “Good. He owes me a game of cornhole.”

  Gerrit scowled. “We don’t have cornhole.”

  “I brought mine.” Noah waved a hand. “It’s in the back of my car. Have you ever played?”

  Of course he hadn’t. He’d never had time for games. But admitting it felt like defeat. He shrugged.

  “Who would he play with?” Evi said. “Mom?”

  Noah laughed. “Mom would smoke him.”

  Evi gave him a look Gerrit could not interpret. “I guess he could play with his new friends.”

  Something about the way she said the word friends rolled like a stone in Gerrit’s gut. Did she not believe he could ever make a friend? No, that wasn’t it. Something else.

  “They’re not really my friends.” He didn’t know how to explain. “They’re just kids. It just kind of happened.”

  “Do you help them with their homework?” Evi leaned her back against the rail as if trying to act casual, but an undercurrent of tension droned in the warm air.

  He looked at her and saw the set of her jaw and heard the real question she was asking. She wanted to know if he was giving Rae and Morgan the pieces of himself he’d never given her and Noah. The pieces of himself he could never quite spare before.

  “No.” Urgency buzzed in his ears. He needed her to see the truth. “I—”

  “Do you go to their basketball games? Their choir performances? Take them to the movies?”

  How had this become about Morgan and Rae? They weren’t the kids he lay awake at night thinking about. “I don’t care about them like—”

  “No, Dad.” Evi pushed off the rail. “It doesn’t matter what you say.”

  “They don’t matter.” He had to make her understand. “Can’t you see—?”

  A cl
atter interrupted his explanation. He jumped and spun around to see a flowerpot tipped over and a figure in a hoodie disappearing around the corner of the house. No. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Morgan?” Gerrit hurried down the stairs, Daisy at his heels, and called after the boy, “Stop.”

  His heart raced, even as it tumbled headfirst into the big black hole he’d dug with his own big fat mouth. He wasn’t expecting Morgan until four o’clock. What was he doing here? How much had he heard?

  The boy ran for the hidden shortcut trail behind the barn, but then stopped with his back to Gerrit before reaching the tree line.

  “Don’t go.” Gerrit caught up and waited for Morgan to turn around.

  He didn’t. “Were you talking about me?”

  Gerrit’s heart shriveled like petals wilting in the sun. “Yes, but—”

  “I thought you were cool because you didn’t seem to care about my family or my past.” Morgan’s fists were clenched at his sides, his voice resigned. “I thought you just liked me for me. But I guess I was wrong.”

  He plowed into the woods without once looking back. Gerrit wanted to run after him, wanted to defend himself, but knew he could never keep up. His body could never maneuver the roots and branches and winding trails fast enough. And Evi and Noah were at the house on his invitation, already wondering where they stood in comparison to Morgan and Rae.

  He held up a hand and shouted, “Wait!” But a west wind kicked up and snatched the word right from his mouth, tossing it up into the leaves. A cloud blew in front of the sun, deepening the shadows.

  He’d really done it this time.

  After staring into the trees long enough for Daisy to grow restless and abandon him, he turned back toward the house. Evi and Noah stood at the end of the deck, watching him. From the looks on their faces, they must’ve heard everything.

  “That was Morgan?” Noah asked.

  He didn’t need to answer.

  Evi rubbed her bare arms as the wind blew harder, chilling the air. “He was early.”

  Gerrit hung his head.

  Noah glanced at the woods. “Maybe you should call him or something.”

  “Can’t,” Gerrit grunted. “Don’t have his number.”

  He hadn’t seen the look on Morgan’s face, but he had a feeling he knew it all too well. Had seen it a hundred times on Noah’s and Evi’s faces. On Hannie’s. He lifted his own face to the sky, now gray and ominous.

  “We better go inside.”

  Evi and Noah filed into the house, silent and solemn. Gerrit stepped in and closed the sliding door behind them.

  Hannie met them in the living room with a bright smile. “Hey, guys. I was just on the phone with Luisa. She says she’s going to be a little late, but . . .” Her smile faded as she noticed their expressions. “What’s going on?”

  Evi looked at Gerrit, but when he didn’t respond, she sighed. “Morgan was here.”

  “What do you mean was?”

  “I feel kind of bad,” Noah said.

  Hannie’s crow’s feet appeared as she looked at Gerrit. He looked back. She would think this was all his fault. And she wouldn’t be wrong.

  A knock sounded at the front of the house.

  Evi perked up. “That must be Travis.”

  She scurried to answer the door. Gerrit’s frown deepened. Bad to worse. That’s how this day was going.

  Hannie and Noah followed close behind Evi, eager to greet their guest. The sounds of a door opening and closing, shuffling feet, and happy voices snaked around the corner to where Gerrit stood. He frowned. If he saw Travis getting familiar with Evi, he’d need a blunt object to deal with the problem. He scanned the room for possibilities but nothing stood out.

  “And here’s my dad.” Evi came back to the living room dragging a young man behind her. “Dad, this is Travis.”

  Travis was unimpressive. Barely taller than Evi, he looked like he’d never done a day’s hard labor in his life. He held out a smooth, unconvincing hand, and Gerrit squinted at it. Looked like he wouldn’t need a blunt object after all. His fists would be more than enough.

  “Dad.” Evi gave him a look.

  He shook the scrawny hand. “Travis.”

  “Good to finally meet you, Mr. Laninga. This is a great place you’ve got here.”

  Nice try, kid.

  “And what do you do for a living, Travis?”

  “Dad.” This time Evi’s voice held a warning. He wrestled with himself. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to grill Evi’s—ugh—boyfriend. She hadn’t even wanted to come, but she was here, and he didn’t want to totally blow it.

  Gerritt held up his hands. “I made strawberry lemonade.”

  Hannie put on a making-the-most-of-it smile. “I tried it this morning. It’s delicious. Who wants some?”

  Travis put his hand on the small of Evi’s back as they followed Hannie to the kitchen. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. She wasn’t a little kid anymore, Gerrit knew that, but he wasn’t ready for this. It was like she’d grown up overnight when he wasn’t looking. Which was exactly what had happened. He hadn’t been looking.

  His neck muscles constricted as Travis and Evi stood close to each other, sharing a glass. Gazing into each other’s eyes. But he kept his mouth shut. He’d told Evi things were going to be different.

  She poured more lemonade. “This is really good, Dad.”

  He caught her eye. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away.

  He would take it.

  A gust of wind struck the house, and the plop-plop of heavy raindrops hit the roof.

  “Looks like we’ll be eating inside.” Hannie peeked out the window. “That blew in fast. Is the grill going to be okay?”

  “Hope so,” Noah said. “I’m starving.”

  Gerrit blinked. He’d forgotten all about the ribs. The grill was on the leeward side, tucked close to the house, so it shouldn’t be affected by the wind. But he hadn’t flipped the meat. Hadn’t brushed it with sauce every thirty minutes. Hadn’t checked the temperature.

  He shuffled to the sliding door and stepped outside. Fat drops hit the deck rail with a splat, like water balloons dropping from the roof.

  “You couldn’t give me one sunny day, huh?” Gerrit scowled at the sky. “I go to church for the first time in twenty-five years, and this is the thanks I get?”

  A headache began to grow. His back spasmed. With a growl, he snatched the meat tongs hanging from the side of the grill and threw open the lid.

  “What the . . . ?”

  The meat lay only half cooked on the rack, looking like a giant centipede that had been rolled over by a truck. The flame was out.

  He checked the propane tank. Empty? He’d bought a new tank last week and hadn’t used it once. How could it be empty?

  He squeezed his eyes shut and saw red. Opened them and felt it. George. It had to be him. He couldn’t leave Gerrit in peace, could he? He was still sore about Bernard. Still mad about the mailbox.

  It was the final straw.

  He slammed the lid shut and charged down the back steps. Into the shed. He reached for the chainsaw on the shelf. The stepladder by the door.

  Wind buffeted him as he stalked down the driveway toward the tree with the dead branches.

  “Don’t know why you never took care of that tree, George,” he mumbled to himself, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “I always knew a storm was going to knock those branches down one day.”

  He reached the fence and set the chainsaw down so he could open the ladder. Then he grabbed the chainsaw and peered up into the tree. “It’s a shame about your RV.”

  The metal rungs of the ladder were slippery from the rain, which had begun to pelt him like dirt kicking off the back tires of the silage truck. He climbed, chainsaw in one hand, until he could just reach the dead branches with the tip of the chainsaw if he leaned far enough.

  “Oh my goodness! What are you doing?” Hannie shouted.

  He revve
d up the chainsaw and reached, imagining George’s smug face in the bark of the tree. Hearing his sanctimonious voice on the wind. “You keeping busy? Other than dog sitting, I mean. I’m going to be a grandpa in June.”

  Other voices joined in.

  “You mean after you killed him?”

  “When Uncle Luke died, I think you did, too.”

  “Luke would tell you to forgive.”

  “Get down from there.” Hannie’s voice was closer now. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “He sabotaged my propane tank.”

  “Dad! Stop.”

  That was Noah, shouting over the wind.

  His outstretched arm trembled. Rain poured down his face. If he could reach a little farther . . .

  “Your propane tank?” That was Evi. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She didn’t understand. Didn’t know how George had been tormenting him.

  He turned to explain. His foot slipped off the rung.

  Weightlessness.

  Fear.

  A loud crash.

  A rush of pain.

  Each breath came in a sharp gasp, the ladder crushing his chest. The cold, wet metal like chains holding him down. Like an unforgiving vise. Like a 1976 Massey Ferguson 235.

  Gerrit brought the old tractor to a stop in front of the parlor, his muscles spent and sore.

  “Did you finish the north forty?” Luke asked.

  Gerrit shook his head. “It’s almost dark.”

  “It needs to get done today.”

  Gerrit clenched the wheel. Luke wasn’t his boss. They were supposed to be partners.

  Luke waited, arms crossed over his chest, exhaustion pinching his face. Gerrit left the tractor idling and hopped down to stand in front of his older brother. “Then you can do it yourself.”

  He could smell the grass. Feel the chill of the air as the sun set. If only Luke had gotten in his face and yelled at him. Shoved him. If only there’d been a different job to do.

  Luke climbed up into the tractor’s seat with a grunt. “Did you check the oil?”

  Gerrit’s nostrils flared. “What do you take me for?”

  “Did you lock the brakes?”

  “For crying out loud, Luke! I’m not a kid anymore.”

  He was always harping on Gerrit about those stupid brakes. About how “Page ten of the manual says, ‘If traveling on a road or highway, the brake pedal interlocking latch must be engaged.’” Blah, blah, blah. Gerrit couldn’t care less about page ten of the manual.