The House of Dust - 7th Chapter

The Harvest

John

John saw a hand and grabbed it. Mark pulled him up; his eyes were sore, so someone probably hit him as well.

“I thought you were dead,” Mark said.

They exited the barn using the backdoor, still hearing the crowd cheering Stephen.

Despite the loud sound of the bulls, there was none on the pasture.

“Bunch of animals! We must get out of here now,” John screamed, holding the pain in his ribs.

“How do you plan to leave? We can’t drive. You want to walk hundreds of kilometers to an unknown city? We should get back to the house, rest, and think about this tomorrow,” Mark said.

“Where’s the little girl?”

“Feit took her when the mob started.”

They surrounded the barn and saw the cheering crowd walking away on the road.

“We should avoid the road. Let’s cross the orchard.” John felt cautious.

“Why? They have no reason to hurt us.”

“They’re a bunch of animals, Mark, that is why! What the hell was that?”

“My theory is that Stephen plotted the church accident to control the farm. The rest of the people probably are just angry or starving.”

“Another reason to leave. Stephen’s nuts, and these people are crazy.”

Desperation was growing in John, for he knew in his bones that something was wrong with Esperanza, and there was nothing they could do about it.”

The smell of sweet-citric smell inside the orchard made John calmer. When they reached the yellowed-leaf tree, Mark stopped and said, “We can’t leave tonight.”

“If need be, we leave the car and ask the insurance to come to pick it up. We can walk to the next city.”

“No. I meant, we cannot leave because of them, the Sylvesters. Did you forget Gerbert’s generosity? What if he lives and Stephen tries to kill him again, or worse try to hurt Miridiana or Cam?”

“This has nothing to do with us. We worked today; we paid our due. We even saved Gerbert from the wreck, so we owe him nothing. I even offered to take him to the hospital if they got us my diesel.”

“Enough with that! Do you even realize the amount shit coming out of your mouth? The jaguar backseat barely fits our luggage, and you want to lay a dying man in a confined space and drive who knows many hours to a city you don’t even know? Would you kill a man just to get what you want?” Mark exploded.

“What do you mean by that? I’m just trying to help,” John defended himself.

“Look, John, whatever shit you did to your life is your problem, don’t get me involved, and, more importantly, don’t use someone else’s life to get your way.” Mark paused for a moment and took a long breath. When Mark finally spoke, his eyes sparkled with hate. “We may be blood, but you’re not my brother, and actually, you mean nothing to me. So, whatever you need to do to clean up your shit, do it alone. I’ll stay and do the right thing, so you can leave. I don’t care.”

“You think you’re such a good man, don’t you, Mark? You’re a fucking leech. I know you only took care of Mom to get a roof over your head. You’re nothing but a freeloader!”

“Tell that to Mom. Oh, wait! You can’t, can you? No, because she’s dead. When was the last time you saw her, ten months ago? I took the responsibility and paused my life to watch for her. The big lawyer, you; always busy with more important things! You’re just a spoiled kid biting the hand that once fed you. Fix your shit alone and take responsibility for whatever you did to your ex-wife. It’s more than Mom got from you.”

John couldn’t breathe with all the adrenaline rushing through his heart. His body became stiff, his shoulder and neck tense, barely moving, and the blood came to his head and eyes; there was just red. No one ever talked to him like that, and Mark, a junky piece of shit, had no right to be on the higher grounds. Finally, John wanted to say something, but his fist was faster than his words. Mark got what he deserved: a punch in the nose.

Mark went straight down on the dirt. But instead of crying about his bleeding nose, he started to laugh. “Johnny boy, you didn’t change a bit, did you? If you want, you should go, not fuck with their lives. Do yourself a favor, fix your life, and do it right next time!”

John knew those words too well, for he drafted them eight years before when Mark overdosed.

Meanwhile, Mark laughed again, like one of those Esperanza maniacs.

Heat came from John’s belly up to his neck and head, and sweat dripped from his forehead while his heart raced two hundred kilometers per hour in the second gear. John wanted to speak or act violently, but he could only feel despair; the once bright kid grew to disappoint everyone he knew. Friends, wife, mother, and brother. Luckily, his father was dead, and he couldn’t watch his meaningless life falling apart.

There was nothing more to do than leave, so John walked away, leaving Mark alone in the mud by the citric-flowered tree.

Mark

Minutes passed since John left, and Mark was still on the ground, having trouble breathing with his bleeding nose. He stopped laughing for a while, but only because he started to think about drugs and that syringe resting on his bedroom floor. Oh, my sweet heroin. Would you make me so light now?

But there were no drugs there, only a little girl that needed help. I promised Cam I would stay, and that is what I’m going to do, Mark thought. Gerbert mentioned that there were travelers there all the time, so I could get a ride back. I don’t need John and his stupid car.

With tremendous effort, Mark sat. The blood on his nose dried, but his tongue felt swollen. Every time he breathed, a funny sound came out of him.

Four yellow eyes glowed in the dark, so close that Mark could grab them. The Shadow watched the whole scene from behind the tree, laughing. Every time Mark lost control, the Shadow was always near.

“Go fuck yourself too, lifeless shit,” Mark barked at the thing, not minding if someone saw him speaking with a ghost.

“Oh! Such a brave man, aren’t you? What are you going to do, brave man, stay behind to help the girl?”

“Yes, I’ll.”

The four yellow eyes blinked.

“Don’t you have anything better to do? Oh, right! You don’t! You’re a freeloader like your brother said. Your brother doesn’t seem to care about them, so why do you?”

“John only cares for himself. He would never understand.”

“But why do you care?”

Mark didn’t answer, but he had a good reason deep inside. Gerbert looked like his father, and Cam like his sister; it was simply a strange correlation. Mark could never change the past, the death of his family, but maybe he could do good by the Sylvesters, much more than his family ever had from him.

While Mark meditated by the tree, he heard John screaming.

“What now?” Mark asked aloud and stood painfully, stumbling his way out of the orchard.

“I think your brother getting into trouble again.” The Shadow spoke so close that Mark could feel its putrid breath.

A small group of large men stood in the parking lot, laughing, and screaming. John was on the ground, holding his cheek and shouting back at Stephen. But this time, Mark didn’t answer.

Mark forgot about his pain and ran for a moment. “Stay away from him!”

The Shadow was now inside the Jaguar, watching the scene with four blinking yellow eyes.

“Look’s hir’ for the party! ‘Em rats is running away, isn’t y’all? After all, Gerbert do. For shame!” Stephan said.

Mark shielded his brother with his thin body and shouted, “Get lost!”

“Do y’all hear me not in Mass? No one’s leaving tonight. Y’all pay for staying. Tomorrow y’all crop the fields for us until yar pony hand bleed, y’all cake eaters,” said Stephen and spat on the ground.

We’re surrounded, Mark thought, seeing that the dozen large men carried each one a machete or a pocketknife.

“Sorry, it was my idea to leave, and my brother was just putting the bags in the car,” Mark lied. “But we don’t need any more violence; we will work tomorrow, as agreed.”

“What?” John shouted.

“Beardy hir’s smart than Mrs. Grundy over Ther’.” Stephen spat again, only this time closer to John’s imported shoes, and left with his thugs, laughing. When the group reached the exit road, Stephen turned back and shouted, “Smart choice, gasper.”

“Take your filthy hands off me!” John screamed when Mark tried to help him up. The older brother stood and cleaned the dirt from his clothes. There was blood on his mouth, and he grunted in pain, holding his belly as he bowed. “Sons of bitches!”

John’s leather bag was on the ground, next to the Jaguar, looking like a dead body. John grabbed it and walked back inside the house, spitting blood on the grass without waiting for Mark.

Mark rambled back to the house, feeling the friction and pain in his bones and bruises. As Mark passed through the porch, he saw the Shadow in a dark corner below the kitchen window. It said, blinking its four-yellow eyes. “That was fun.”

“Shut up,” Mark said.

Inside the house, sounds came from the kitchen. Miridiana stood there, looking outside the window, probably watching what happened in the parking lot.

“Good evening, Miridiana.”

“Hello.” She sounded like the fragile old lady she was and looked up at the tiles on the wall.

“I’m sorry about the noise outside.”

“What noise?”

What noise? Mark thought, wondering where Miridiana was all the time, for certainly not within everyone else. Her mind was always adrift. How can she not see the blood on my face and shirt?

“Nothing. How’s Cam?”

“She’s asleep.” It was like talking to a robot.

“Is Gerbert better?”

“Yes.”

Mark left her alone and went upstairs, feeling the pain of every step up, stopping by the dark corridor, barely lit by the dimmed light coming from the kitchen downstairs. Mark glanced at Cam and Gerbert’s doors briefly before entering his dorm.

John was there, getting ready to sleep.

They ignored each other for the rest of the night.

Mark got clean clothes and went to the bathroom, where he soaked his cuts and bruises in the salty desert water. His hands felt crackled, his skin dry, and there were blisters everywhere, which he popped up carefully, and washed with hot water and soap.

His nose still bled. That was not the first time Mark fixed his own dislocated nose. After the clicked-in position, it bled like a faucet.

Mark could only relax after another bath.

Before leaving the bathroom, he cleaned all the blood he spilled and checked on the cabinets for medical supplies, but nothing was helpful.

I think I saw a med kit in the Jaguar the other day. Or was it today? Didn’t John have an open cut in the chin that I patched? Oh, my head is killing me; I just want to sleep now.

Mark finally went back to the room, tapping his way into his bed in the dark while John slept soundly.

Hours passed.

Mark couldn’t sleep. His head was exploding, and there was no comfortable position in bed.

The room was pitch black so that Mark couldn’t see a centimeter in front of him. Still, he felt that something alive was inside the wardrobe the whole night, and he knew what that something was.

John snored soundly.

Outside, the bulls yawned, and the owls inquired.

The crickets ticked the clock.

Tick, tack.

Time passed by, but there was no rest.

Mark folded his pillow in many ways, but his neck, back, swollen nose, or heat made him uncomfortable; it was hopeless.

His body spoke, desperately begging him to rest, to let go of the physical pain. Still, his mind was ruthlessly awake, ignoring the wound and blood staining the white sheet bed. The heroin urge was there too, like a third entity, trying to give the perfect solution for both body and mind.

But there was no solution, no heroin—only a dreadful day followed by a hideous night.

Many memories flashed in Mark’s mind during the night.

The moment his father and sister died, before the truck hit, the hopelessness in his father’s eyes when he knew it was over.

The moment her mother died in the hospital bed, her dying body was like a skeleton. Suddenly, it felt like she had died not two weeks but years before.

The moment Dylan died, his child-like crushed body gasping for air, and the tears rolling from his eyes.

Mark couldn’t stop thinking about Gerbert dying next door.

But the worst of all was to keep counting the kilometers, naming the cities, telling the hours and moments since he last saw the needle resting on his garbage can.

The Shadow whispered from inside the wardrobe, “One more shot!”

One more shot, like it’s easy.

Mark didn’t answer, just trying to sleep again, changing positions over and over: back, front, side, fetal.

Later that night, Mark snoozed without noticing but quickly woke up gasping for air, feeling that strange pressure over his chest again.

The Shadow strolled nearby. The cold bodyless creature blinked at arm’s length.

Mark couldn’t move.

He was paralyzed, freaking out.

The room got colder and colder, and Mark couldn’t stop shivering, feeling the hard electric pulse running through his spine, messing with his hair like an invisible hand.

And the Shadow kept on strolling nearby. The yellow eyes came closer and slowly closer.

Mark felt trapped in his own body. He screamed, but his mouth didn’t move like some invisible hand held his throat.

The Shadow was now on his face, and Mark could smell the putrid breath, feel the cold fog climbing his bed and sitting on his chest, with its eyes millimeters from his own.

Mark struggled like a fish out of water, desperately trying to move and scream. Still, something else was in control. Only his eyes allowed his tears to roll down.

Mark couldn’t breathe or move.

Only fear.

Is this what Dylan felt before he died?

Is this what Dad felt before he died?

The Shadow was all over, mixing the cold black with his bleeding skin.

Mark felt his body crushing as the Shadow whispered in his ears,

“Mark, wake up. Wake up, you lazy bastard! Wake up!”

Finally, Mark could breathe. Instead, he woke up screaming! The air came all at once, and he felt the pain on his lugs, sitting, touching his chest to make sure his bones were still there.

John stood by his bed, too hurried to even ask what was happening to his brother. The sunlight was all over the room.

“And put some clothes on. You’re a mess! Look at your bed, full of dried blood, and your face, man, you look like shit!” John has dressed already in a new white shirt, looking sharp and clean as a bank manager, except for the bruise from the punch he got from Stephen the night before.

What the hell? Mark felt confused, wondering if he was indeed awake. His chest hurt, and blood everywhere in his bed came out of his cuts. But finally, Mark stood and bore his pain in silence.

Stephen screamed in the corridor, announcing that it was time to harvest.

“Fucking asshole!” John sighed, looking at Mark, irritated. Something was comic about that, and both brothers laughed. For a moment, everything seemed all right, like last night had never happened.

After dressing and getting a new pack of cigarettes, they went downstairs. There was breakfast in the kitchen. Lilian and Feit sat at the table, eating, while Cam helped Miridiana with the dirty dishes. There was grief in the air.

“Morning, sleepy y’all. Oh! What happened to yar face?” Lilian got surprised by John’s bruises, while Feit looked away, angered. The scratch on John’s check was merely a fraction of the tragedy on Mark’s face. Still, she was more interested in John than anyone else.

Mark sat in the corner of the table while John was shoulder-to-shoulder with his desired lady.

“I got into trouble last night with Stephen,” John said.

“Stephen did this?” Lilian said.

“No. That pitiful man couldn’t if he tried. One of his Gorillas.”

“Those brute miners!”

John had something to say, but Mark saw his face changing and after a pause, he finally voiced, “I wish you were in the Mass yesterday, but then I didn’t.”

“I’m no Christian. I watch no mass, so I help Miri. My father told me the confusion.” Lilian explained.

Cam rubbed a wet plate with a cloth, looking sad and hopeless. The look on the girl’s face made Mark remember someone else the night before, so he said,

“Excuse me, Lilian; you said the Pregnant lady left yesterday, but I think I saw her in the Mass.”

John confirmed that he had seen her too.

“The pregnant lady? Isn’t possible, dears. Them poor girl left a-while. Perhaps it was someone else from the city.” Miri answered, from the sink, barely turning her head.

Mark felt suspicion, but it was perfectly plausible that another woman in Esperanza was pregnant and attended the Mass. Still, the woman dressed like anyone in Esperanza so far.

“How did she leave without the fuel?” John asked. Apparently, John could only talk about the diesel and his car.

“S’one cam’ pick’er up, I guess.”

“The rental car company! Of course. They probably tracked the car’s GPS.” John sounded reasonable.

Both Lilian and Miridiana seemed confused, but they consented anyway.

“For Christ’s sake! We could’ve paid them to tow us too.”

“Why? You’re planning to leave me soon?” Lilian sang with a lovely voice, and that was enough for Jack Feit, who stood in a bump and said, stomping his cumbersome feet outside the house.

“Time to work.”

Mark was also tired of that empty mellow talk between his brother and Lilian, so he followed Feit outside the house, giving Cam a final worried peek before leaving.

John

The night before still haunted John’s thoughts. He was disappointed in Mark’s lack of support and understanding, besides his futile attempt to undermine John’s authority with his attackers. But the worst was the talk about responsibility, implying a duty towards the Sylvesters, which was preposterous. They paid their dues with work; that was the agreement; John owned them nothing.

John had enough concerns already. Mainly the trial that would define his adult life, just a few days ahead, the only thing that mattered to him besides Lilian.

But why do I care so much? Why do I need to explain myself to my poor junky brother? That was something beyond John’s comprehension, the way that beggar got into his mind and revived old primitive feelings about his family and himself. That sense of failure and disappointment was something John was not used to. Someway, Mark had the power to make him insecure.

And Stephen. That loud small man was not giving him any rest. John woke up early that morning, thinking about ways of hurting the man in case he was forced to work on the stupid harvest.

That will teach him a lesson.

Still, something in John’s heart was optimistic that morning. It was like he knew the fuel would arrive that day, he would be on the road, and everything would be okay in the end. So why not enjoy the last hours with Lilian?

Mark suddenly returned to the kitchen, saying, “John, you better come.”

John stood and glanced at Lilian, who looked apprehensive, but with a wink, she smiled, and everything was fine.

Stephen shouted in front of the house, “Look y’all. The lazy doll came at last. Running again, lazy doll?”

“You wish.” John challenged, but Stephen only laughed back.

In front of the cornfield, Feit sorted the cutting tools for the volunteers, and when he saw John coming closer, he grabbed a scythe and threw it at him, expecting John to catch it. Instead, the scythe handler hit John’s chest before he could react.

“Hey, watch it!” John barked.

“Watch what, city boy? Watch y’all and stay the fuck away from Lili, y’all pig. Y’all feel me? Or next time, the scythe’ll land on yar head!” Feit barked with a machete in his hands, ready to cut John badly.

The sun was heating up.

Not that John felt intimidated or anything. He could totally kick Feit’s ass, but Stephen intervened right on time. The short man laughed and pushed Feit inside the crops, saying, “‘em Romeos’re ready fighting, eh? Y’all can nail fight later, ladies; now we crop!”

Around 2 pm, Miridiana brought food and refreshments. John’s felt his arms and hands numb, barely being able to keep the corn juice steadily on his wearied hands. Despite John being fit after years of gym training, he admitted that his body was not equipped for that kind of labor.

Cam sat on the front porch watching the harvest with her black hound, sad as a black and white family picture. John noticed that Mark could not stop looking at the little farm girl with that straight doggy look. What a loser!

They finished eating and got back to work.

The labor division was simple, John, Mark, and the volunteers, most miners, cut the corn trees by the stalk while Stephen and Feit cleaned up the cobs. Then, when the pushcart was packed, one of them took the load to the barn.

Every time Stephen bent to get a cornstalk, John imagined a blade sinking into his mediocre neck. That would be murder, but if John chopped off his leg, it would be a work accident. Still, it was hard to decide what to do.

They finished cutting a third of the first cornfield in the late afternoon, which meant less than one-tenth of the fields, so the harvest would easily last for another three days. John overheard that the work would continue later that night. They still needed to sort the cobs, deciding which ones would be grained for the silo or immediately consumed.

John would be out of Esperanza that evening. He would rather walk a thousand kilometers in the desert than endure another day of work like that.

In the early evening, an engine roared closer to the farm, and soon a truck approached. It was Mann, and he headed to the tractor shed.

“What ‘em old rag want?” Stephen muttered, and Feit went to check.

The fuel arrived, John thought. I was right!

Cam ran to meet with Feit in the front yard, but before they reached the grove, the old fellow appeared between the trees, saying something to the little girl and entering the house. Stephen seemed to be as impatient as John, so he ran inside to discover what was happening.

Not a minute after, Cam ran back to the cornfields with the news:

“It’s Mann!” Cam said.

The Bright kid , ladies and gentlemen. John thought sarcastically.

“He bring fuel for ‘em tractors,” Cam said.

“Oh, yeah! Baby yes! Did he bring for my car?” John said.

“Yar car? I don’t know.” Cam looked confused.

Useless kid! What did Mark see in her?

“Leave her alone!” Mark intervened furiously. John was so happy that he just ignored them, running into the house to find out himself, leaving a track of dirt everywhere he stepped.

Inside the house, there was a discussion between Mann and Stephen. Miridiana stood in the kitchen door frame, scared, and the hound barked frenetically.

“Load ‘em tractors, old rag! Why are we discussing this?” Stephen shouted.

“I hear no y’all, yar zozzled. Miri, Gerbert’s okay with all this?” Replied Mann.

Miridiana shook her head, confused, opening and closing her mouth without a word.

“He’s sleeping!” Cam came inside the house, screaming, defending her mother. Obviously, Mark followed her, carrying the machete still with him.

“Mr. Mann, did my fuel arrive too?” John asked, ignoring the giant rocket of a fight in front of him. After all, it wasn’t his problem.

“Stay out of ‘is Grundy! Miri, I speak with Gerbert.” Mann said.

“He can’t talk!” Cam shouted and ran closer to her mother, grabbing the old woman’s blue dress. The hound sat by her side, the protector.

“Said y’all that old Gerb’s a goner! I’m leader now, so do as I say!” Stephen carried on shouting.

Mann ignored and looked fixed at Miridiana and Cam, waiting for her orders.

John wanted to say something; he didn’t care about that useless dispute, only about leaving. As soon as they gave what John wanted, he would go on his way, never to bother those people again. When John realized what to say, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

“No,” Mark whispered, very close to his ear.

“Stop jerking ‘round, old rag. Mr. Potato upstairs is a goner. I’m leader now.”

After those words, the hand still laid on John’s shoulder became stiffer, tense with hatred. Mark was about to explode, so John smiled and thought, I should keep him from doing something stupid.

Tension grew in the room.

Everyone was silent, waiting for the first of them to explode.

Mann still looked at Miri, waiting for an answer. Then, under pressure, she finally said, running upstairs with Cam and the hound, “Just do it! Fill ‘em tractors and get out of my house, all of you. I’m tired of this continuous madness!”

“See, old rag. Hotsy-totsy o’er ther’ is smart than y’all.”

“You should watch your mouth!” Mark said, raising the machete.

John grabbed his shoulder and whispered, smiling, “No.”

Mark gave John the machete and went upstairs to check on the Sylvesters. Mann walked outside, followed by John and Stephen.

“Mann, I’m tired of these stupid games. I need my fuel, now!” John stated very firmly.

“Gasper hir want to bail?” Stephen said.

“Don’t forget who is holding the machete this time, short man.” John threatened, and Stephen left, laughing.

The old fellow looked back at John, with those tired old blue and green eyes, and said, “Y’all fuel is in Station. Com’ later.”

“When?”

“Later. What I say?” Mann kept on walking, but John followed him,

“Don’t you have something now? I mean, you should bring extra, right? I just need half tank diesel, and I’ll be out of your feet.”

Mann stopped and thought for a second before saying, with a hitch of disappointment, “Lil say y’all cool. Guess she’s wrong.”

Those words made John stop for a moment.

Meanwhile, the old man left for the tractor shed, and Cam, the hound, and Mark went out of the house. John could hear them whining.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you and your mother. That man won’t touch a single hair of your family; nothing bad will happen to you.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. Just don’t worry about it. Go play, and I’ll fix this.”

The girl ran to the orchard, followed by the hound, heading to the barn.

The sun was orange on the horizon; it was almost sunset. Before John noticed, a pack of black-loaded clouds formed in the sky—It would be another hell of a night! John wondered how long the old man would take to fill the tractors and get him his diesel.

Meanwhile, the bulls seemed to wake up, first humming and then escalating to a strange scream.

“I hate this sound,” Mark said to himself, still on the porch.

“Look up the sky, Mark, and see the storm. We should pack and leave now.” John came by and watched the farm with his brother.

The workers still cut crops under Stephen’s orders.

“What about them?”

“Not our problem. You should stop making promises to that little girl that you cannot keep. The only promise you should care about is the one you made to your mother and finish getting her ashes to the coast.”

Mark was silent for a moment, but finally, he said, “That’s your promise now. I took care of Mom; I own her and you nothing more. You go and take care of her wish; it’s more than you ever did. I’ll stay.”

It was hopeless, so there was no point discussing it further. John would never convince Mark to leave.

Why should he? Why did he care so much about Mark anyway?

That man standing in front of him was nothing but a stranger, and maybe the separation was inevitable. After all, Mark was a freeloader; that was just another opportunity for him to get a roof over his head.

What was there more to say? It was time for John to pack and hit the road.

The house was silent and dark, for the sunset could not penetrate those linen curtains. All the lights inside were off, and there was no one around. Someway, the once warm home turned into an indifferent cold coffin.

John cleaned himself using the water from the jar in his room, leaving a dirt trail over the floor and towels, but he didn’t mind. Mark would clean that mess; it was his payment for choosing the Sylvesters over his own family.

When John left the room, the sky had turned black, and the house was immersed in the dark. The only light came from Gerbert’s ajar sleeping room, the mausoleum where the farmer waited for his inevitable death.

Something about that scene made John shiver, hit by an unnatural cold, as he watched Gerbert’s ajar door at the end of the hall.

I should go now.

The stairs are right there.

I just need to cross the mezzanine.

But John couldn’t make his legs work to his desire. So, he walked two steps forth and backed three.

Back and forth.

Forth and back.

The silence was dreadful. Like a moth, involuntarily, John was drawn to the light.

I owe him nothing! I should go now before someone sees me lingering in this corridor!

But why do I care? Why the fuck should I care?

Why does this pale light coming from his room guilt me so?

I can’t leave without checking on him.

Finally, John followed the light and entered the last room on the right. Gerbert lay in the bed, pale and alone. His chest was still, and his arms were spread lifeless by his side.

There was no pulse.

The farmer was dead.

Why am I crying?

Why does it feel like I just lost my father again?

John gave up trying to control his feelings. Instead, he chanted a prayer and thanked the farmer for the hospitality, leaving the room to an even darker corridor.

Suddenly the dimmed light from Gerbert’s room was not enough for John to walk safely in that dark corridor. He tried his phone, but it had no battery, so he tapped his way in the dark, hearing the cracks and squeaks on the old floor.

The mezzanine was better lit, for the lights in the kitchen were on.

Who’s in the kitchen? Lilian? Miridiana? Perhaps even Mark and the little girl?

John didn’t want to know, not with his face wet with tears, so he headed for the front door, taking his leather travel bag.

“Y’all brothers leaving?” A woman’s voice came from inside the kitchen, and John was forced to walk back and face the voice. He cleaned his face and entered the room. It was Miridiana, looking dead, a pale skeleton, barely holding a cup of coffee in her shaky hands.

“I’m, but my brother will stick around longer to help you and Cam.”

“Oh, he doesn’t need to. We’ll survive this, we always do.”

“Ah, well. I told Mark that, but I guess he’s...” John couldn’t speak for a moment, even though the words were on the tip of his tongue. I guess he’s a better man than me. In the end, John learned much more about Mark in those few words than he ever did during a whole lifetime.

Miridiana broke the silence,

“Ah, Okay. I wish Gerb would be hir’ to say something. Y’all see, I’m no good with words, but I wish y’all farewell.” She turned back, looking up at the wall tiles, sipping from the coffee mug.

It was evening outside, but one could easily see since all reflectors were on. The men still worked in the crops like busy ants, and John felt paralyzed for a moment.

Maybe Mark’s right, and I’m a selfish son-of-a-bitch.

On the front porch, breathing slowly, John recollected all the critical events of his life, trying to understand when he turned from hero the villain in his own story.

Then, something woke him up. A scream came from the cornfields.

John dropped the bag and ran towards the crops, unconscious, afraid that something had happened to his brother. Halfway, John saw Feit coming out of the crops covered in blood, rushing to empty the pushcart. Next came Mark and a miner, carrying Stephen outside the field. He screamed with his right foot bleeding like a faucet.

That motherfucker got what he deserved, after all!

“What happened?” John shouted a few meters away, unable to control the malicious smile on his lips.

“We need to stop the bleeding, Give me your belt,” Mark said.

“My belt?!”

“Give me your fucking belt!”

Stephen screamed.

John untied his belt and ran closer to handle it to Mark, who used to tie Stephen’s leg and stop bleeding.

“We need Father Octaviano! I’ll ask Mann to get him with the truck.” Feit screamed and left.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” Another miner came suddenly from the crops, looking worried, shouting apologies.

“Hey, you! Stop crying and help me taking Stephen inside. He’s too big for the pushcart.”

“Mark, what can I do?” John asked, disoriented but smiling.

Mark looked at him, with bloodstains on his shirt and face and hatred in his eyes, “You’ve done enough, John. You should leave” Mark carried Stephen inside the house, helped by the miner.

“What about my belt? It’s caiman!” John screamed, but no one answered.

Miri stood on the porch, covering her mouth in panic, watching the bleeding man tarnishing her porch and house.

The bulls screamed louder than ever.

John would never admit it to himself, but he genuinely wanted to help. Maybe to prove that he was not so bad after all. There was nothing more to do but leave, so John headed towards the house to get the leather bag he had dropped on the porch.

Mann’s truck engine roared.

Time became slow.

John bent to catch his bag and heard the truck skid in the curve behind the grove. Then, the spotlight reflected on the road.

There was something on the path.

A little girl.

Miri appeared on the porch and shouted with everything in her lungs, “Cam, get out of the road!”.

Everything was confusing. At first, John couldn’t possibly calculate what was about to happen. Mann, who was probably in a rush to get Father Octaviano, unrestrained, drove on the dirt road, not seeing Cam on his way.

John’s heart stopped. The realization of the doom.

His eyes opened wide, his pupils like headlights.

Instinctively John dropped the bag and ran as fast as he could.

But Cam was too far away.

Too far away.

The truck hit the girl meters away from John’s fingertips.

And the bulls cried even more.

Cam’s little body lingered forever in the air.

Until it splashed on the floor.

There was blood everywhere.

Mann’s truck skidded again with a loud braking noise, running out of the road.

There were screams everywhere.

The truck almost overturned but finally stopped casting filthy smoke from its tires and engines.

Finally, John reached the girl.

Cam lay on the road, covered in blood and gore.

John knelt, trembling, trying to clean up the blood and dirt from the girl’s face.

When John’s father died, the cops said that a truck hit Paul when he tried to rescue Mark from his overturned flaming pick-up. They told Paul never saw the vehicle coming and probably didn’t feel any pain. Still, John always pictured that scene, imagining his father kneeling on a lonely close to a curve, fighting the fire in front of him. A drunk truck driver slept on the wheel, only to wake up with blood on his windshield.

John’s imagination would never conceive the reality of his father’s death. Fiction would never overrule the tragedy of real life.

Cam’s eyes were so confused and innocent, looking back at him, begging for her life. Those were Paul’s eyes, Dylan’s eyes, perplexed, trying to understand the thing that took their life away.

Cam’s chest stopped moving.

Finally, the bulls stopped crying.