Against the Grain Read online

  Against the Grain

  A Novel

  By

  Phil M. Williams

  Against the Grain

  By Phil M. Williams

  Copyright © 2015 Phil M. Williams

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Second Printing, 2018

  Phil W. Books www.PhilWBooks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-943894-04-8

  Contents

  Chapter 1: The Farm

  Chapter 2: Meet the Neighbors

  Chapter 3: The Giver

  Chapter 4: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

  Chapter 5: What About Your Parents?

  Chapter 6: Memory Lane Is Filled with Regret

  Chapter 7: There Goes the Neighborhood

  Chapter 8: God?

  Chapter 9: School Daze

  Chapter 10: Revenge

  Chapter 11: The Hunt

  Chapter 12: Gotta Play the Game

  Chapter 13: The Connect

  Chapter 14: The Nuclear Option

  Chapter 15: People Don't Want Truth

  Chapter 16: Forgiveness

  Chapter 17: The Calm before the Swarm

  Chapter 18: Some People Can't Be Helped

  Chapter 19: Going Down

  Chapter 20: Green Street

  Chapter 21: Memories

  Chapter 22: The Family You Choose

  Chapter 23: To Jack

  Chapter 24: Visiting Day

  Chapter 25: Take a Chance

  Chapter 26: Abundance

  [ 1 ]

  The Farm

  The boy moves from hive to hive in a tattered gray T-shirt, tan pants, a veil, and bare hands. The fifty hives and three million bees create a collective hum. He works gracefully and efficiently. He’s baby-faced, thin, but wiry, short for his age, with sun-bleached light-brown hair, a sharp pointy nose, and tan skin. The hives line the edge of the wood line, overlooking ten acres of wildflower meadows.

  Native grasses—and splashes of purple, red, and yellow flowers—dominate the field. Bees fly back and forth, carrying nectar and pollen from the five-foot-tall milkweed flowers, red clovers, and purple chicory blossoms. A shallow pond lies in the depression, dead center. Cattails, pink lotus flowers, and bulrushes cover the waterscape. Ducks submerge their heads, letting the water roll down their backs.

  The boy unties his veil and tucks it under his arm. He treks through the well-worn path toward the dilapidated barn and cabin. He steps through the propped-open barn door. Sunlight streaks through the many fissures and imperfections in the structure. He hangs his veil on a rusty hook. A black cat greets him with a meow. He bends down and offers his hand. The cat rubs her head against him.

  “How are you doing, Blackie?” the boy asks, as he pets the cat. “That’s good. I’ve got good news and bad news.” He sits down on the wooden folding chair in front of the workbench. The cat hops up in his lap, turns around three times, and lies down. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” He pauses. “You’re just like me. I always choose bad first. Well, I’m concerned about Uncle. I don’t mind doing most of the chores. I’m old enough, but he used to be so strong. Now he can’t help with the heavy work. I don’t even know if he’s sick or just old. What do you think?” The boy takes a deep breath and exhales. “I know. You’re right. I should talk to him. I just don’t think he’ll talk about it. He never complains about anything. Do you remember when he cut off the tip of his finger? Not a single complaint. He must be the toughest person on earth. So that’s the bad news.

  “The good news is the bees are being nice to me. I haven’t been stung once this season. We have an agreement. I’m extra careful not to hurt even one bee, and they’re extra careful not to sting me. The chickens are doing well too. I gotta tell you what happened last night. We have this new chicken that keeps sleeping in the nesting box. Of course I can’t let that happen, because then the eggs get dirty with her manure.

  “So at dusk I’ve been going to the box and picking her up and putting her on the roosting bar with the others. Once I put her there, she stays all night, but she still tries to sleep in the nest the next day. Last night I went to open the nest, and she hurried up and got on the roost before I could put her there. People say that chickens are stupid, but I don’t believe it. She’s smart enough to know that I don’t want her to sleep in the nest, so she just waits to see if I’m gonna kick her out. If I go to kick her out, she pretends like she wasn’t in there, but, if I don’t get out at dusk, she sleeps there all night. Either way she wins. That’s pretty smart, don’t you think?”

  Blackie purrs as the boy rubs the cat’s neck with his finger.

  “Oh, come on, Blackie. Don’t worry. You’re still my best friend … my only friend, if you wanna get technical.” The boy gazes at the rafters. “I’d love to sit here and chat with you, but I need to get going, I still have tons to do. I’ll bring you some leftovers, if we have anything good tonight.”

  He grabs two large wicker baskets, the fruit picker from the workbench, and strides for the orchard. He stops alongside the old one-story wooden cabin. Apart from his tiny bedroom, he can see the entire cabin through the dirty window. He sees dust motes in the sun, streaming through the windows, as well as the kitchen, the reading area, and Uncle’s bed against the far wall. Uncle is lying on his back on top of his bed, fully dressed in his denim overalls. His stocking feet hang over the end. Uncle is a mountain of a man. He’s clean-shaven, his white hair neatly kept. His face is worn from the combined effects of the sun and age. His clothes are loose around his body.

  The boy taps the window. Uncle opens his eyes and turns his head, with a little smile. The boy waves and continues to the orchard. The three-acre orchard features rows and rows of fruit in various stages of ripeness. An old orchard ladder is a permanent fixture to access the thirty-foot-tall trees. He finds the peach tree he checked for ripeness yesterday. He props the orchard ladder up against the trunk. He grabs the low-hanging fruit first, then what he can reach with the extending fruit picker. With a flame-red peach inside, the picker looks like the torch on the Statue of Liberty. Finally he gets on the ladder with the picker to get as much as he can. He looks at a ripe cluster, just out of reach. I’ll leave those for the birds. He fills two bushels and lugs them out of the orchard.

  His old wooden cart sits on the porch, partially loaded. He adds the bushels of peaches to his jars of honey, cartons of eggs, and broccoli heads. He pushes his load of produce along the dirt driveway. After a quarter-mile trek on the path through the meadow and the woods, he arrives at the asphalt highway. His senses are overwhelmed. He hears the roar of the motors as cars zoom by. He smells the exhaust fumes from the diesel trucks. White paint is peeling off the fruit stand. The stand is set up in the grass at the end of a concrete sidewalk.

  The boy looks over the inventory and adds the produce from his cart to the open compartments. He keys open the lockbox, and stuffs the cash and change into his pocket. He locks the box and places it under the sign that reads Pay What You Think Is Fair. He sits on the plastic lawn chair, grabs a peach and some snap peas to munch on, and cracks open his self-assigned homework, The Creature from Jekyll Island, by G. Edward Griffin. He pulls his bookmark at the chapter entitled Sink the Lusitania.

  The boy looks up from his textbook and sees a short, chubby blonde girl with blue eyes, a round face, soft features, and perfect porcelain skin.

  “How much are the apples?” she asks.

  “The price is whatever they’re worth to you.”

 
The girl flashes an instant smile. “So, what if I thought they should be free?”

  “Then, for you, they’d be free.”

  “I could just take all your produce and then what?”

  “Well, then I’d be out of business, and you’d have to grow your own produce or go back to buying that awful stuff at the grocery store.”

  Her nose twitches, and she laughs. “What’s your name? Do you go to Jefferson Middle?”

  “I’m Matt. I go to school here, at my house.”

  “You mean, you’re homeschooled?”

  He nods. “I study with my uncle. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Emily. I live down the road, over there in Kingstown. You know, the new neighborhood.”

  “That’s a long way,” Matt says.

  “It’s not so far on my bike. I wanted to see what was at the end of the sidewalk, and I found you. Plus I like to bike ride, and my parents tell me I need to exercise. Do you like to ride bikes?”

  Matt looks down. “I don’t have a bike.”

  “I have an extra one. It’s a ten-speed, not a girl’s one either. You could borrow it, if you want to.”

  Matt looks away. “I never learned to ride.”

  Emily waves her hand, as if she’s swatting a fly. “That’s not a big deal. I could teach you. If I can do it, you could definitely do it. I’m bad at everything.”

  “I’d like—” Matt starts.

  Emily turns toward two BMX bikes rapidly approaching. She cringes and braces herself, with slumped shoulders and her chin to her chest.

  “Hey, buffalo butt, you better pedal your big ass home, before Mom and Dad get ahold of you,” the lead rider says.

  The lead rider looks more like a man than a boy. He’s tall and muscular, with stubbly facial hair growing densely around his chin and upper lip. His hair is cut short on the sides, with horizontal lines shaved into his scalp and jelled spikes on top. His sleeveless black T-shirt reveals the arms of a bodybuilder.

  “You’re a jerk, Tyler!” Emily’s face is red, and she has tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, I see. You’re all embarrassed because you like this little Amish faggot. I hate to say it, but it ain’t gonna work. He prob’ly likes Colton,” Tyler says, as he points to his partner in crime.

  Colton, still on his bike, wears long black jorts hanging low off his ass, a white tank top, showing off his red skin, and thin developing muscularity. An Oakland Raiders cap sits perched sideways on his head, with the brim stiff as a board. Patchwork facial hair is left to accumulate on his chin and upper lip.

  “Fuck you, yo,” Colton says. “Nigga prolly wanna suck yo dick. Faggot-ass faggot.”

  Matt turns his head, wishing he could be invisible.

  Colton’s self-cultivated suburban caricature of the urban black gangster is rebellious and dangerous in rural Pennsylvania but would hardly pass an authenticity test in downtown Philadelphia.

  “Oh, snap, that punk ass be frontin’. You see him look away, yo?” Colton laughs.

  “I didn’t know you could be Amish and a faggot,” Tyler says. “I’m pretty sure that shit’s against the rules. I think you can bang your cow or your goat or whatever, but not a man.”

  “Stop it. You’re being a jerk,” Emily says.

  Matt turns to Tyler. “I’m not Amish.”

  Tyler and Colton laugh in unison. “You do this shit because you’re poor?” Tyler says. “It’s not even for your religion? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Tyler places his hands up in mock surrender. “From now on I won’t call you Amish. You’ll be the white-trash faggot instead.”

  “White trash and faggots—that shit don’t mix,” Colton says. “Them faggot mufuckers be rollin’ in the Benjamins, and they be dressin’ all … what them mufuckers call it? Metrosexual or some shit?”

  Tyler glares at Colton and exhales. “Fine. … From now on I’ll call him farmer faggot.”

  Colton smiles wide in approval.

  Matt’s eyes fill up with tears. He wipes them with his sleeve.

  “Oh, snap. Nigga’s straight-up bawlin’ now,” Colton says.

  “Damn, now I know he’s not Amish,” Tyler says. “The Amish would just take that shit. They don’t cry like a fuckin’ baby.”

  “Leave him alone!” Emily says.

  “Fine. Damn, buffalo butt,” Tyler replies. “You need to get your ass movin’ though. Mom and Dad are seriously pissed.”

  Emily looks at Matt; he looks away. She pedals toward Kingstown. Tyler and Colton grab some apples and throw them toward the highway. Colton holds his pants as he winds up. Apples explode as they hit a passing eighteen-wheeler. They high-five, push each other, and hop on their bikes, racing past Emily.

  Matt puts his chin to his chest and lets the tears stream out. His chest heaves, as he sobs. He stands up, still sobbing. He picks out the rotting produce and puts it on his cart. He checks the lockbox to make sure it’s secure and starts back for the farm.

  Matt yanks open the cabin door, as he enters. Uncle sits at the kitchen table, drinking sage tea, reading Thoreau, his reading glasses hanging off the end of his nose. Matt ignores him and heads for his bedroom. He slams his drawers open and shut. He returns to the living area carrying a clean pair of sweatpants, underpants, and a T-shirt.

  “You okay?” Uncle asks, before Matt exits the front door.

  “I’m fine,” Matt says.

  “How’d we do?”

  Matt walks over to the table and empties his pocket filled with crumpled bills and change.

  “That’s not too bad. Why don’t you walk down to Tractor Supply and get yourself a new pair of pants tomorrow?”

  “No, thank you. I’m gonna take a shower.”

  Uncle frowns. “Are you sure? Every damn pair of pants you have has holes in it. You know I’m not much of a seamstress.”

  Matt nods, his head lowered. He exits the cabin and walks to the rear of the structure. He enters a wooden L-shaped enclosure against the cabin. A black hose connected to a showerhead dangles from the roof. He turns the spigot on full blast but steps back, anticipating the scalding-hot water from the sun-drenched hose atop the roof. He splashes himself with the scorching water. He grabs the soap made from duck fat and lathers up his body and hair. He steps under the now warm water to rinse.

  Matt enters the cabin. He inhales the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary. Uncle looks up from his book, eyebrows arched high.

  “You gonna tell me what happened?” Uncle asks.

  “It’s not a big deal. Some kids from town were mean to me at the stand,” Matt says, his eyes searching the floor.

  “Being honest is most important when it’s the hardest. You might think that it makes you look weak, but nobody’s perfect. It’s just the strong aren’t afraid to admit it.”

  Matt looks up at his uncle. “They called me an Amish faggot, okay? Then when I told them I wasn’t Amish, they said I was a white-trash faggot, but then they decided, because homosexuals tend to be wealthy and snappy dressers, that they would just call me farmer faggot.”

  “Do you know what that word means?”

  “Dictionary definition or slang?”

  “You know which one I’m asking for.”

  Matt exhales. “It’s when people are attracted to their same gender.”

  “Do you think that’s something immoral, something to feel bad about?”

  “Everyone else seems to.”

  “That’s lazy thinking, and you know better. It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks. I wanna know what you think, based on logic and reason.”

  “People argue pretty strongly that it’s immoral, but I don’t understand how it’s hurting anyone. If both people want the relationship, and they’re old enough to consent, it’s moral. If it’s forced, then it would be immoral. The same goes for any relationship.”

  “So, if being homosexual isn’t immoral, then why would you be upset if someone called you that?”

  Matt bites the inside of hi
s cheek and stares at the ceiling. He looks at Uncle. “I know I shouldn’t care what those kids say. I guess I want other kids to like me.”

  “It’s biological and normal. Humans evolved among tribes, and banishment meant certain death. Wanting to fit in is part of our DNA. I’m sorry about what happened today. There will always be people like that. If you stay true to yourself, they will never break you. Why don’t you come over here and sit down. You can start your lesson, while dinner’s cooking.”

  Matt purses his lips. “This was a lot easier when you taught me everything.”

  “Yes, but I don’t wanna spoon-feed you information. If you wanna master a topic, you must be able to teach it to others. If you can teach an old dog like me, then you can teach anyone. Now, where did we leave off last night?”

  “We were talking about the Battle at Waterloo between England and France.”

  “All right then, proceed.” Uncle grins. “Teach me, young Professor Moyer. My mind is like a sponge, ready to soak up your wisdom.”

  “You’re not gonna believe this, Uncle. So Nathan Rothschild is this rich, connected banker who has smuggling operations all over Europe. His banking house is literally controlling governments with credit. Everyone knew that they transported goods and, more importantly, information all over the world. During the Battle at Waterloo, Nathan created a panic in English government bonds. He started selling all his bonds, and people thought he knew that England must’ve lost to France. So then everyone started to sell and the price of the bonds plummeted in value. You’ll never guess what he did next.”

  “Go on.”

  “He buys them all back at bargain-basement prices. Then it turns out that he knew England had won all along, and the value of the bonds skyrocketed. So basically he now owned the English government, the most powerful empire the world had ever known.”

  “That’s quite a story. You don’t think England could simply not pay the bonds?”

  “They could, but money and credit would dry up, their economy would go through a massive deflationary depression, and people would be seriously upset. The government would then run the risk of being overthrown, without money to pay soldiers. What do they care if they have to pay interest, as long as they stay in power?”