Bone Harvest - Mary Logue [1]
The mainstay of the market was the produce from the Daniels farm. They were a couple in their late thirties who had immigrated to Pepin County from the Twin Cities about ten years ago. They had moved down to start an organic farm. At first they just sold produce from a stand. But they were now bringing vegetables into Red Wing to sell at an organic outlet, and they had also been instrumental in setting up the farmer’s market.
As he approached the stands, Rich saw a flash of red. Nine months he had been waiting. A pile of red fruits. The first of the tomatoes. He walked right to them and picked up a couple. If he had a salt shaker he would have stood right there and eaten one. His mouth watered just thinking about the first bite. His mother used to tell him that his grandfather had called them love apples and had eaten them with sugar and cream.
A plate of sliced tomatoes with a little salt and pepper, oil and vinegar, and freshly cut basil would be the perfect side dish to his meal tonight. A good sign of what the evening might bring.
“Two per customer,” Celia Daniels told him. “We’re trying to spread them out so everyone can take a couple home.”
“Sounds fair. How do you manage to get ripe tomatoes this early?”
“The greenhouse makes it all possible. This is the earliest I’ve ever had them. July first. Well before the Fourth of July. Can you imagine?”
He carefully selected the most perfect two he could find. Round, ripe, and red. Claire was busy picking through the large selections of greens and lettuces. Meg had run off with the two Daniels kids to play on the swings.
Then he heard a distressing sound. If he hadn’t known what it was, he might have thought it was a mother bird fending off an attack on its young. But he recognized the strident beep. Claire’s phone was ringing. She glanced over at him and reluctantly reached into her bag.
“Watkins,” she said, and then turned her back to him and listened.
His hands shook lightly on the steering wheel, but he just repeated the phrase over and over again: First step done, first step done.
He parked down the old field road that no one used anymore. Most people didn’t even know it was there. He drove the road ten times a year in order to keep it from growing over completely—once in April, once in May, twice the next three months, then back to once in September, and once in October. Then the snow came and he didn’t have to worry about the road until the next year.
This was the start of his plan. So far it was working. He didn’t feel too nervous. Just a little excited. It was so inevitable. It had to be done. He had thought it through for many years and he was ready. What he had done today was the first step. There would be many more. He hoped they would all go as smoothly as this one.
And in the end, he might get what he wanted.
He got out of his truck, went around to the back, and opened the topper. He reached into the bed of the truck and grabbed the two-gallon jug. He put that into the backpack he had brought with him. Then he wrapped his arms around the two boxes. It was a lot to carry, but he didn’t want to make two trips. He had been away from home for too long already. He wanted to get this stuff safely stowed away.
He knew the number of steps it took to get to the hiding place. He counted them as he went. Each step had a number, and if he thought that number he would get there. It was a way of holding on to the world.
The world was out of balance. It had been so for nearly fifty years. Only he could see it. Only he could change it. He had lived with this knowledge most of his life. It was time to rectify it.
He walked down the hill and into the shade of an old oak. He stopped for a few moments to catch his breath and to cool off. The day was a hot one. But he didn’t relinquish his burden. He couldn’t put it down