Читать книгу A Road to Nowhere - Bradleigh Munk - Страница 9

Chapter Four

The Harvester

Clark suddenly found himself walking down a dirt road to nowhere; for miles, all he could see were fields full of tall corn, ready to be harvested. The sun was hot, and as he enjoyed the warmth on his back and neck, he relaxed instantly, and his gait became slower and less hurried. “I have never felt this content in forever,” he said out loud. After about two miles walking east (he was guessing), he came into a small town full of early-nineteenth-century shops and small houses. Not one person or animal could be found, so he kept walking until he was on the outskirts of the small hamlet; eventually, he spotted a handsome midsize house nestled within several buildings found only on farmsteads. On the left were two gated pens, probably for hogs or perhaps cattle. Stopping at a path made from flat shale stones, he debated on what his next move should be; in a flash, he started up the walk toward the warm and inviting dwelling.

Arriving at the wraparound porch, he was greeted by an ample woman, perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties. Warm and full of comfort, the woman greeted him with, “You must be lost. I’ve never seen you in these parts.” Her smile was broad and inviting.

“Yes, I’m not from here. I seem to be lost, and I was wondering if you could tell me where I can find the closest pay phone.” After saying this, he thought to himself, When was the last time I even used a pay phone? If ever, most conversations were through text or cell.

Her confusion was all too evident. Replying, she said, “Pay phone? The only telephone I’m aware of is in the Hollins Dry Goods, and no one pays for it. No one could afford using the line since the only telephone it can reach would be long-distance.”

Slack-jawed, I couldn’t hide my growing panic. Where was I? I thought. Where was London? Starting to feel the excessive heat of the day, he began to feel dizzy and sat down onto the step leading to the house.

Slipping inside, the woman disappeared; returning shortly, holding a glass full of ice and something yellow, she handed it to him and said, “You must be suffering from sunstroke. Here, drink this. The sugar will refresh you.” Grateful for the kind gesture, he accepted the drink even though sugar was never on his diet. He took a small sip to be polite; he figured, after that he could return the unemptied glass and not offend her. To his surprise, the flavor was glorious and made his heart sing.

Probably the sugar, he thought; finishing the drink, he returned the empty glass to the loving woman standing in front of him.

Just then, a man pushed the screen door open and, like the woman, greeted him with warmth and love. “So, you are lost. Why don’t you come in and join us for some supper, and after we can all figure this out.”

My eyes swelled with emotion, and trying to control my tears, I agreed. Following behind, I was thinking, No other person has ever taken the time to help me figure things out, not even my family—wherever they are.

The hallway they entered had two wide doorways on each side, leading into separate rooms. Dining and sitting, he thought; straight ahead was a stairway leading up to the unknown. Down the hall, on the left side of the stairs, they quickly arrived in a brightly sunlit kitchen, where a simple but efficient table sat on the left as they entered. To the right were cupboards painted a clean white; next, a gas range; and finally, at the far end, under a four-paned glass window, a soapstone sink.

“Have a seat. The rest of us will be joining shortly, and we’ll eat soon. Ham okay?” she said with a warm smile.

“Yes, of course, that would be wonderful.”

Soon, stomping could be heard approaching the back screen door; a boy and then an older girl came crashing through, stopping in their tracks when they saw me sitting at the table.

The girl, pretty in a rural way, said, “Hello, who are you?”

Blushing, I found myself unable to form a sentence.

“He’s a guest,” said the mother. “We are all going to have some supper. Martha, would you grab the plates and silverware? Glen, bring over the glasses and set the lemonade on the table.”

We were soon all eating thick slabs of ham, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Everyone was abuzz with conversation when Mary said, “Did you hear about those two men who were found shot on the road to Center City?”

“Now, Mary, we have a guest. Let’s not discuss this again.”

Mary, now a little red in the face, said, “Sorry, Father, it’s just so awful.”

“Young man, you haven’t told us your name. I’m Henry, and this is my wife, Sara; daughter, Martha; and son, Glen.”

Feeling as if I truly belonged, I offered up my name as Clark, Clark Thompson. At least I can remember my name, I thought.

“Tell us, Clark, how did you end up on our doorstep?”

A little embarrassed and turning red, I said, “I’m not sure. One moment, I was at home and, the next, walking down your road.”

“Well, it will be too late to go into town to ask our sheriff, Stan, for help. Why don’t you stay the night, and we can work through this tomorrow?” The offer was welcome and a relief, since I had no idea how I was going to make it back home. Later that evening, Sara made the bed in the small room off the kitchen, with crisp white sheets, and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out dreaming of tornadoes and blue amulets, except this one had a stone of red.

The next morning, I awoke to the smell of bacon frying and coffee in the percolator; it sounded like someone taking a deep breath, holding it, then blop, blop (plop, plop). Back home, I would have turned my nose up to coffee made this way; this, however, seemed right, and I was soon scarfing down mounds of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and strong coffee.

After breakfast, Henry told Glen that he needed help getting the summer harvest into the hayloft. Glen was excited. “Can I run the elevator?” he asked.

“We’ll see,” said his father. “We don’t have much time. I hear a storm is due to move in by tonight.”

I spoke up and said, “Can I help? I have no experience. However, I’m a quick learner.”

“Sure, we can always use extra help, now that our hired hand has left for other opportunities.”

For the next several hours, the group performed like a finely tuned clock, and before I knew it, I was working like a pro and enjoying it!

Right before the noon meal, Martha and her mother returned to the house to prepare lunch and, shortly after, returned with a pail of cold lemonade. We all stopped to rest and enjoy the cold drink then headed to the house for the meal, cold sandwiches with homemade bread, and thick slabs of ham; it was even better than yesterday.

The skies had started to darken when the three men returned to the barn. Working faster, knowing what was approaching, we all moved and settled each bail until the last square was placed. Huge drops of water started hitting the sides of the building, as Henry secured the door against the wind. We all ran for the back porch, trying to dodge the large drops, making us wetter than if we just walked fast. This didn’t matter; we were all afloat with laughter and a sense of a job well done. I had never felt such satisfaction from working a hard day of manual labor and returning to the house; we all collapsed into the kitchen chairs then gulped glasses of the sweet lemonade.

Strange thing, a conversation about my appearing on their doorstep never materialized, and we were soon planning for the next harvest. They offered the room off the kitchen—small but efficient. I would help in the fields during the day and felt obligated to help with the house chores; Sara constantly complained, in a loving way, by saying, “It’s not something a man should be doing.” I would always respond by saying, “It pleases me to be needed.” I think she fussed just to hear me say that I needed to be needed.