Sweet Land

  Sweet Land

  Sweet Land

  New and Selected Stories

  WILL WEAVER

  Borealis Books is an imprint of the Minnesota Historical Society Press.

  www.borealisbooks.org

  Copyright © 2006 by Will Weaver. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Borealis Books, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 55102-1906.

  The Minnesota Historical Society Press is a member of the Association of American University Presses.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48–1984.

  International Standard Book Numbers

  ISBN-13: 978–0–87351–556–6 (paper)

  ISBN-10: 0–87351–556–0 (paper)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Weaver, Will.

  Sweet land : new and selected stories / Will Weaver.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-87351-556-6

  (pbk. : alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-87351-556-0 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-87351-702-7

  1. Middle West—Social life and customs—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3573.E192S94 2006

  813'.54—dc22

  2006022483

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgment is given to the following publications in which versions of the following stories first appeared. “Flax,” Milkweed Chronicle (Winter Issue, 1985), Minneapolis; (revised version) in Red Earth, White Earth (Simon & Schuster, 1986); (Borealis Books, 2006). “Sheetrock,” Stiller’s Pond Anthology: Fiction from the Upper Midwest (New Rivers Press, 1991). “Dispersal,” Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine et al. (PEN Fiction Project, July 1985). “The Gravestone Made of Wheat,” Prairie Schooner (1982). “Bad Blood,” Destination Unexpected, ed. Don Gallo (Candlewick Press, 2003). “Heart of the Fields,” The San Francisco Chronicle et al. (PEN Fiction Project, 1983). “The Gleaners,” Journal of Gastronomy 5:2 (Berkeley, California, 1989). “Marked for Death,” Unexpected: Eleven Mystery Stories, ed. Laura E. Williams (Scholastic, 2005).

  Cover image: Ali Selim

  Cover design: Adam Waldman

  For Ali Selim

  Sweet Land

  Flax

  Sheetrock

  Dispersal

  A Gravestone Made of Wheat

  Bad Blood

  Heart of the Fields

  The Gleaners

  Marked for Death

  You Are What You Drive

  Blaze of Glory

  Haircut

  The Last Farmer

  Sweet Land

  Flax

  “Two-thirds, one-third. And no Sunday farming.”

  “Deal,” Kenny replied to his grandfather, and at the same moment they reached out to shake hands. His grandfather’s hand was wide and thick and cool, as if the earth upon which they stood were reaching up through the old man.

  His grandfather, Helmer, had farmed these northern Minnesota fields since 1915. But now it was 1982. The last of this grandfather’s black Angus were gone to the stockyards in St. Paul. It was Kenny’s turn to farm. He had a sudden urge to throw his arms around his grandfather, but their handshake had locked them an arm’s length apart. And anyway, Kenny was nineteen now, beyond all that.

  The arrangement between Kenny and his grandfather, except for the no-Sunday farming part, was a common one. Kenny would bear all the expenses, provide all the labor. For that he would receive two-thirds of the crop. His grandfather would get one-third, payable at harvest time.

  Kenny expected the quiet-Sunday clause. Helmer never farmed on Sunday, believed Sunday was a day of rest for both farmer and land. Unlike his grandfather, Kenny did not read the Bible or attend the Sunday morning gospel meetings, but he could get along without farming on Sundays. He could simply put in more tractor time the other six days. Sunday would be no problem.

  “So what are you going to plant?” his grandfather asked, turning to look across the hundred-acre pasture.

  “Not sure,” Kenny lied.

  “Raise a good crop of corn. Oats for sure.”

  “Have to think on it some more,” Kenny said, which was true. For now it was October. There was winter to get through. But between now and spring he would be thinking of flax.

  After his graduation from high school last spring, Kenny had taken a brief motorcycle trip to Canada. In Manitoba, at sundown, he had come upon a long field of grain in brilliant, blue bloom, a field so long its blue end was welded to the sky.

  “Flax,” a passing farmer called out with a laugh, checking Kenny’s motorcycle plates.

  Kenny had taken a sheaf of flax and a handful of the Canadian soil back to Minnesota. No farmers in Sand County grew flax, but no one had ever tried growing it in northern Minnesota, either.

  Kenny sent a sample of the Canadian soil and his grandfather’s loam to the University of Minnesota for analysis and discovered the two were nearly identical. He saw no reason why flax would not grow well in Sand County, especially in the hundred-acre pasture which had lain in sod, manured by his grandfather’s Angus for the last ten years.

  Now in October, however, he did not speak of flax. He did not want to argue with his own father about the terrible dangers of trying something new. Anyway, he would need all of his time for work and sleep.

  Kenny still lived at home. In the mornings, he arose at 4:30 to help his father with the milking. By 7:00 he was in his pickup, driving to Detroit Lakes where he worked as a maintenance welder in the french-fry plant. After eight hours of welding, he returned home at 6:00 to help his father finish chores. Supper was at 7:30, and then he always took a short walk across the road to visit his grandfather.

  Helmer, so long widowed that Kenny remembered his grandmother only vaguely as white hair and the smell of bread dough, sat in his straight-backed chair reading his Bible. Sometimes he and Kenny would talk and sometimes they would read, his grandfather the Bible and Kenny National Geographic. Without telephone, television, or radio in the house, the only sound was the whispering slide of their pages and the faint kiss of his grandfather’s moving lips. A bowl of ice cream ended their evening, and then Kenny walked home for an hour of TV and bed by ten.

  Kenny did not want to live at home forever, or even for another year. But right now it was fine. By helping his father with the Holsteins, he worked out his room and board, plus the use of his father’s big tractor and plow. This they had figured out closely. “Money between relatives is like sand between the sheets,” his father often said. By keeping close accounts, everybody slept fine. Kenny was able to save his welding money, $280.67 net each week.

  On the wall calendar in his upstairs bedroom, Kenny figured out his first season’s farming expenses. Each french-fry check bought the equivalent of 20½ bushels of flax seed. He would have his seed paid for by January. February was checked off for diesel fuel and tractor oil. March was marked for plow lays and disks. April allowed for fertilizer and planter expense. May and June were checked for harvest expenses: custom combining and trucking. The month of August, however, was unmarked. There would be no August for Kenny at the french-fry plant. With his flax crop sold he could walk away from his welder for good. With any luck, he could buy a small tractor of his own, perhaps even make a down payment on some land. He would be free, would start his own life.

  But first, he knew, there was the winter to get through. It passed quickly, largely because he worked time-and-a-half, including most Saturdays at the plant. Inside the windowless building, under the fluorescent lights, everything was covered with a fine sheen of vegetable oil. All the workers wore blue smocks; men and women were distinguishable only by their caps or kerchiefs over their hair. Beside the river-rush of the transport flumes, the clatter of the cutter, and the heat of the quick-fryers, Kenny welded. Behind his welder’s mask, he sometimes imagined himself an astronaut, newly landed on some strange planet inhabited by a ruling class of potatoes—potatoes whose only goal, assisted by large, blue-smocked robots, was infinite multiplication. He was lost in space. He was so far from home.

  By April first, the snow, except for slouched, weeping banks on the north side of the farm buildings, had vanished. A week of sunshine and fifty-degree weather followed. By the ninth, Kenny could drive a shovel nearly eight inches into the pasture sod. Tractors and plows began to appear in the farmyards along the road to Detroit Lakes. By April twelfth, a Wednesday, as if by common signal, tractors were in the fields, plowing. Kenny cursed because he was not among them.

  But Saturday finally came. At sunup, with only a cup of coffee for breakfast, Kenny turned the tractor onto the sod and lowered the plow. The coulter disks cut six slices into the earth, and the moldboards lifted and turned the shining soil. Stopping only
for diesel fuel and a sandwich at midday, he plowed through sundown and then by the tractor’s big yellow running lights. By 11:30 that night, insides the tractor’s cab with its blue dash lights and the yellow lamps outside shining down the long furrows, Kenny believed the field a long runway. The tractor was a great jet, and with each round on the runway he came closer to taking off over the fence and up into the black sky.

  Abruptly he stopped the tractor in midfield. He shook his head to clear it and got out to piss. The cooler air slapped him awake. He surveyed the field. There were only acres left to plow. He could finish that in two hours tomorrow. But then he cursed. Tomorrow was Sunday.

  Kenny looked across the field to his grandfather’s house. There were yellow lights on in the living room. He knew his grandfather was waiting up, waiting for Kenny to come home. What the hell. He would finish the plowing tonight, keep going. But then he cursed again, involuntarily including his grandfather this time. Though he had only two hours of plowing left, in half an hour it would be Sunday. And a deal was a deal.

  Kenny finished the plowing Monday night at ten o’clock. Immediately he hooked onto the field disk. He disked until 3:00 AM Tuesday, then stumbled through chores and work. He disked again Tuesday night. The week became a slow-turning kaleidoscope of tractor’s lights, welder’s flare, and falling stars. On Friday his father called him at the french-fry plant.

  “There’s some guy here from Manitoba with 400 bushel of flax seed,” his father said. “I told him he had the wrong farm. But he’s got your name on the slip. It looks like your writing.”

  “It’s my writing,” Kenny said, in the same moment feeling completely awake for the first time in days. He imagined the Canadian, the truck, the brown burlap bags of seed.

  “Flax seed? For the old pasture?” his father said.

  “Flax. It’s all paid for,” Kenny replied.

  “Flax,” his father said slowly, his voice receding in puzzlement, “well, I’ll be damned.”

  Kenny laughed as he hung up the phone. “Not potatoes—flax!” Two of the cutter ladies stared at him. He realized he had spoken aloud. “No more potatoes, no more potatoes,” Kenny chanted. In two months this place could fuck itself. His flax would guarantee that.

  On Saturday he planted. The shining brown flax seed ran easily through the grain drill hopper, and he was finished and in the house for the ten o’clock news and weather.

  April 21: Fifty-five degrees and sunny. Flax seed swelled, some sprouted.

  April 30: Warm front slowed over North Dakota and Minnesota. 74° and sunny. Flax sprouts nearing the surface. Could use a rain, though.

  May 3: Raining and 54°.

  May 5: Flax up! Tiny green needles, millions, billions of them.

  May 14: Two inches of rain and the sun out. Black field shading green. Flax finger-high.

  May 20: 72°, sunny. One hundred bright green acres. Flax a long hand high.

  June 2: 89°, need rain badly.

  June 4: 61°, cold front moving in. Keep coming.

  June 5: 55° and raining in Sand County and nowhere else. Beginner’s luck?

  And so Kenny’s notes on his calendar and his luck continued. When his flax needed rain, the skies clouded and water fell. When his flax needed sunlight and heat, the frontal systems dispersed, and the sun shone.

  By mid-June the field of flax, like a great roadside magnet, began to slow the pickups of passing farmers and draw many to a stop. The farmers got out and walked along the green hedge-end of the grain. They knelt and rolled the flax through their fingers. They chewed the shoots and stared over the field.

  Every evening Helmer gave Kenny the Flax report, as they jokingly called it. How many farmers had stopped, the aphid count per square foot. Whether there was rust. For Helmer, it seemed, spent much of his day walking among or along the flax. Sometimes Kenny wondered if his grandfather were not the guardian angel of the field.

  But on July eighth, a Thursday, Kenny knew his luck had run out. The temperature and humidity were matched at ninety-two, but a cold front had bulged down from Canada and would meet the warm air in Sand County. Kenny alternated between watching the TV’s weather radar and the west sky over the flax. By 7:00 PM the weather woman was predicting high winds.

  “—and damaging hail,” Kenny’s father finished for her. “That’s the trouble with flax, you see. Hail catch it right, it’ll kill it. But now you take oats or barley, they’ll—”

  Kenny left the television. Outside he stood among his flax and watched the oncoming weather. Waist-high and blooming blue on the higher swells of the field, the flax’s uncertain colors matched the sky. Southwest were the high, shining, cumulus towers—“Holycard clouds,” Kenny’s mother called them. White heat-lightning shimmered underneath the lumbering warm front. From the northwest came the lower, darker, faster-moving clouds of the cold front. Kenny watched the two fronts, in slow motion, collide. Their clouds tangled and churned and rolled upward dark and bulbous. Supported by yellow forked legs of lightning, the fronts now divided and became great spiders, struggling for control of the prairie sky.

  Cold air suddenly washed over Kenny’s face. Rain shimmered across the flax toward him, and behind the rain, whitish and racing, came the hail. Kenny cursed the sky and ran for the cover of the machine shed. The rain overtook him, and he was instantly wet through. And once under the tin eaves of the building, Kenny turned to witness the destruction of his field.

  But even as he watched, the hail veered sharply south, churned through a neighboring cornfield, and raced out of sight. It was then Kenny saw his grandfather. Helmer stood drenched on the front steps of his house. His arms hung straight down, his palms out, his brown face and streaming white hair upturned to the sky. His eyes were closed. His mouth was open. He was either speaking or drinking in the cold rain.

  After the storm, the flax eased into bloom. At first a broad, milky-blue, the field drew its color from the sky. But then in full bloom, the flax’s color surpassed and gave back a deeper blue to the high crown of the sky. Past full bloom, the field shaded daily to yellow, then brown, as the flower petals dropped away and the seed pods formed.

  By July twentieth, the seeds, each clutched in their five-leaved cups, were the size of garden peas. That same week a killer frost burned most of Manitoba’s flax fields brown. And within days, flax futures at the Winnipeg Grain Exchange began to trade up their daily limits, pulling the cash price for a bushel of flax to an all-time high of $25.00.

  The Detroit Lakes Sentinel ran a newspaper article on Kenny and his flax. The article, entitled, “Gambling and Farming May Pay Off,” estimated the flax yield at sixty bushels to the acre.

  “That’s $150,000, Grandpa,” Kenny blurted, as his grandfather slowly read the article. But his grandfather did not reply or even look up until he was finished. Then he folded the paper and handed it to Kenny. Helmer frowned and stared through the west living room window—at the flax, the sky.

  “But it’s not in the bin yet,” he said.

  Kenny nodded. He wished the newspaper had not started figuring his profits because now that figure ran through his mind like a movie. He could see it all. With $150,000 he could buy land of his own. He could buy his grandfather a new furnace and a tank of oil. He could buy his mother a microwave oven and a color television. He could buy his father a new pipeline milker. He could buy himself a new pickup. He could—abruptly he stood and erased the pictures from his head. It was nearly ten o’clock, time to hurry home and catch late weather.

  By August eighth, with the flax field a golden lake, its seeds hard enough to hold a fingernail dent, Kenny made final harvesting arrangements with a neighbor, Jim Hanson, whose new John Deere would combine the grain. The weather held hot and dry. On August twelfth, a Friday, with clear sky and the next weather front still far off in the Rockies, Kenny cut.

  The flax folded golden over the sickle of the swather, golden and steadily like ocean waves. With Helmer watching from a folding chair by the gate, Kenny cut until sundown when the flax began to draw moisture from the cooling air. The sickle pounded in complaint against the toughened stalks, and Kenny pulled away with only a few acres left to windrow.