Becky
leaned against the fence, watching as a trio of corn pickers sucked in the
brittle brown stalks and spewed golden grain into the open trucks behind. Like
an army of bright green tanks, they devoured everything in their path, mowing
down Mark Conley’s vast fields in a matter of hours.
The
October ritual had been played out in these fields every year for more than a
century, but it was the first harvest for Becky. She was amazed at the speed
with which the fruit of the fields was neatly condensed into trucks. The
Conleys weren’t even here to enjoy it.
Three
months had passed since Natalie Conley was wounded during the summer’s murder
spree, but she still was unable to cope with reality. Her paranoia and
depression had become so severe that she had attempted suicide twice. Shirley
had moved with her daughter to a friend’s beach house in South Carolina, hoping
the total change of scenery—and a mental health expert in Charleston—would heal
her unseen wounds.
Neighboring
farmers had offered to take care of the harvest so Mark could join his wife and
daughter. Becky was here to chronicle
this act of charity for a Sunday story in the Jordan Daily News.
She had finished her interviews with Delbert
Thompson and the other farmers who were helping. Mack had taken his photos and
left, but Becky remained, trying to absorb the rhythm and grandeur of the whole
operation.
Watching
the transformation of the cornfield made her think of an old joke about not
being able to tell a secret in a field because the corn has ears. Oh, the
secrets and sadness this corn had heard! Last spring, when Mark planted it, he
couldn’t have imagined the death, fear, and ultimate unity that a “Cornfield
Killer” could create.
Malcolm
Jones still was making headlines in the Daily News. Just the day before,
his attorney’s petition for a change of venue was resolved and a court date had
been set for early December in Peoria, one hundred miles to the southwest.
Already jokes had started about “playing Peoria,” though Becky doubted the
trial could move to any city in the state that hadn’t heard of the Cornfield
Killer.
The
summer’s events had left a mark on the Daily News as well. Josie had
taken a month off after her ordeal in the ceramic shop. She and Kevin had spent
two weeks at a cottage in the Ozarks simply treasuring life. The experience had
transformed Josie into a tiger, with a strength and determination she’d never
had before.
Becky
smiled, thinking of the day Josie had burst into the office, a full week before
her leave was scheduled to end, and marched into Ham’s office to demand that
Nick be made her assistant to allow her more time at home with her son. She’d
also demanded that Hoss be named news editor. Hammond argued that Hoss’s
failure to follow basic rules made him unfit for management. Josie countered,
loud enough for the whole newsroom to overhear, that the rules about not eating
or drinking in the newsroom were stupid and punitive and had been broken by
virtually everyone. She pointed out that even Hammond had a roll of Life Savers
in his desk drawer.
She
offered a compromise: No eating at desks during regular business hours but no
prohibition against snacking at the desk after hours. That brought the rules
into compliance with practice, and was something even Hoss could accept. Of course, there was the little matter of
smoking in the newsroom, and Josie assured Hammond that rule would not be
broken by Hoss or any of the late-night sportswriters. Then, somehow, she
convinced Hoss that his new title and hefty pay increase were worth his
compliance.
The
air had seemed fresher in the newsroom in the last month or so, and the
reporters had a pool on how long it would be before the determined Josie
convinced Hoss to give up the vile habit altogether.
After
all, she had convinced Duke to enter a dry-out clinic for six weeks, at the
newspaper’s expense. Though Sharon and
Jennifer had not moved back into the house officially, the family was together
every weekend. Duke had been out of treatment for less than a month and seemed
strong in his sobriety so far, writing more poignantly than ever.
Yes,
so much had happened since this corn was planted. “Do that many changes happen
every season?” Becky wondered. These events had been more dramatic perhaps, and
closer to home, but as Becky watched the last corn picker finish the last row,
she thought how change is all around us all the time. Some of it makes it into
the newspaper, some of it doesn’t, and the events that never make print are
sometimes the most significant.
Becky
weighed these thoughts as she pulled out of the Conley driveway and headed down
the gravel road to Old Ben’s. He would have some wise words to share. Becky had
visited with Old Ben regularly during the past few months, hungering for the
rural simplicity that she never had known and feeling an acceptance there she
never had expected.
Becky
could see him in the porch rocker as she pulled up, but he didn’t rise to greet
her or wave as he usually did. He must be asleep.
“Hey, Ben,” she called as she came up the
walk. She bounded up the two steps onto the porch, expecting the creak of the
old step to awaken him with a start. When he didn’t jump, her smile melted into
concern.
“Ben?” Becky said tentatively, then reached
out her hand and gently shook his shoulder.
“Ben!” she said louder and touched his cheek. The cool stiffness of his
body made her jump back.
“Oh, no! Ben! Ben! Can you hear me?” When
there was no response, Becky ran into the house and quickly dialed the Thompson
place. She knew it was too late for an ambulance, but she had to do something.
Grandpa Thompson said he would be right there, but Becky still was shaking as
she went to the kitchen sink and filled a glass of water from the tap. The well
water had a strong metallic taste, but Becky noticed only the coolness that
seemed to ease the burning in her chest.
She
walked back to the porch and sat down in the rocker next to Ben. The
contentment on his face conveyed a calmness that made her smile.
“Oh, Ben, how lucky you are,” she said aloud.
“You’ve never been to college or around the world, but you learned all about
life watching corn grow. Watching sunsets and rainstorms, tilling the soil,
planting seeds, harvesting grain. I wish I had half your wisdom, half your
faith!”
Becky
was silent for a few minutes, the porch creaking as she rocked. She could
almost hear Ben’s reassuring chuckle.
“Time” he would say. She would have her wisdom
and faith in time. She smiled again, tears seeming out of place. Ben’s passing
was an occasion for celebration. His season had ended, his harvest had come.
A “V”
formation of geese passed overhead honking loudly, but to Becky it seemed like
a chorus of angels trumpeting a soul’s arrival in heaven. She felt at peace,
rocking and watching the cloud of dust from Grandpa Thompson’s car wending ever
closer on the old dirt road.
