7. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
J on was driving breakneck down a dark country road in Louisiana. They were out here; he knew they were. If only he could go fast enough to catch up. Suddenly, on a parallel road to his right, he saw two cars. The green Kia hatchback was being chased by a souped-up Dodge Challenger—black like the devil himself.
"Trish!" he shouted.
He looked around desperately for a way to get over to that road. But, even in the gray void of nighttime, he could sense the murky swamp between them, a wet place in the Earth that could swallow his car. If he gunned it, and built up speed, could the car clear the swamp and reach the other side?
Only the next time Jon looked, the swamp had grown from a narrow ribbon to a wide lake. On that other road, the Kia skidded, spun, and spun, and spun, and spun. Seconds from catastrophe. Too late. Too late.
"Trish!"
Jon woke up with a scream in his throat, his heart pounding dangerously. He sat up, clutching the sheets in his fists.
Shit. It had been at least three months since he'd had a nightmare like that. He'd thought they were over for good. But apparently, the universe wasn't done fucking with him yet.
He put his face in his hands and wept. But even that comfort was minimal. Only a few sleepy tears leaked out. He was just so tired, and so goddamn tired of being so goddamn tired.
Dawn was breaking outside the window. He had that, at least. A new day. Work to be done. He threw off the bed covers and pulled on jeans. Anything to occupy his mind. Anything not to dream.
He pulled on layers for warmth, topped them with a down coat, gloves, and a balaclava, then left his modest bed and bath apartment in a converted old garage and walked up to the farmhouse. The horizon was a line of brilliant pink beyond the barn. Thick frost coated everything and turned the grass and fallen leaves on the lawn into frozen clumps. It was hella cold. Too cold for a Louisiana boy, and way too cold for October. The fall leaves, a precious thing to Jon, were still on the trees, and now they were white tipped with crystals. Thanks, climate change.
The sliding glass door to the kitchen was unlocked, as usual, and Jon let himself in. Ringo ran to the door to meet him, as he always did, and Jon rubbed his ears. Samuel was at the stove flipping eggs, and he gave Jon a regretful smile. "Runnin' a little behind. We were up late last night."
Jon grunted and went to pour himself a cup of coffee from the large pot while Ringo brushed his legs. "I'll come back."
"Nah, give me two minutes," Samuel said. "I wanna talk to you anyways."
Jon preferred to leave. But since Samuel was the boss—or one of them, anyway—he couldn't very well ignore him. He stood awkwardly in the kitchen sipping his coffee, one hand on Ringo's head.
Samuel put the fried eggs on large slices of buttered homemade bread—one of the true pleasures of Pig Bottom Farm—and wrapped the whole in wax paper, the way he always did. But instead of handing it over, he turned to look at Jon.
"We have a guest," he said quietly. "He's gonna help with chores for at least a few days."
"Don't need help."
Samuel hushed him with a hand gesture and lowered his voice to an urgent whisper. "Shhh. Yes, we do. This boy was cast out of the Amish community, and he needs a place to stay. He's too proud to stay unless he can work, so we're going to keep him busy. There's plenty to do."
Jon frowned. He didn't want to argue, but he didn't see it.
"Have him help with the muckin' and feedin'," Samuel suggested.
"I do that. Or Eddie does."
Samuel, who was normally mild mannered, gave him a fierce glower. "Then you do somethin' else. What about that new shed? Materials have been sittin' since August. Or cleaning the old hay out of the loft? Or gettin' the garden ready for winter?"
You do the garden , Jon wanted to say. And it was too cold to be building a damn shed. He didn't like the idea of his routine being disrupted. He had a set schedule, and he liked it that way. He needed it that way.
But… this wasn't his farm. Samuel could do whatever the hell he wanted.
He gave a sharp nod. "Fine." He held out his hand for the sandwich.
Samuel handed it to him. "Try to be nice, please. He'd been through a lot."
Without replying, Jon left the kitchen. As usual, Ringo stayed behind, his old bones too brittle for the cold. Out in the frigid morning air, Jon stuffed the sandwich into a pocket, having lost his appetite. He didn't want to have to train someone. And train someone to do his job? The idea made his head hurt.
Hadn't Eddie said something once about Samuel being ex-Amish? Jon didn't know the story; didn't want to know it. Their business was their business. But obviously there was a connection there.
Jon had only been in Pennsylvania for two years. He knew very little about the Amish other than seeing them around in their horses and buggies now and then. Or passing by Amish farms when he was out driving, which he often did on Sunday afternoons. You could tell one of their farms by the solid-colored clothes hanging on the lines, or the windmills, or the men out plowing with horses, like some kind of old-time movie.
They were a conservative religious sect, that much he knew. Which didn't predispose him to like them. But Samuel had been Amish, and he was gay and married to Eddie, so it was apparently possible to escape their clutches.
Whatever. It was none of his business. He just hoped this kid wouldn't stay long. A tiny, cynical voice in his head suggested Samuel might fire him to give this kid his job. Blood ties or whatever. But Jon wasn't paranoid, so he shook off the idea.
He worked hard. They needed him, and he knew it.
He reached the barn and pulled open the old, white-washed door, which creaked on its hinges. There's a job that needs doing right there . The inside felt toasty compared to outside thanks to the extra straw, space heaters, and the multitude of bodies, though it was likely only around fifty degrees. He was met with soft oinks and the rusting of straw as the burrowed denizens came out to say hello and to sniff the air for whiffs of his sandwich.
Jezebel's red snout was the first to emerge, then Benny's black bristly head, then dozens of plump, porcine bodies emerged from their sleepy nest and scrambled over to the gates of their pens.
"Mornin', my beauties." Jon cracked a smile for the first time that day. "Hello, my loves." He knelt by the first stall to receive morning kisses from Benny and Jezebel. "I know, ya'll really just want my sandwich. But your breakfast is comin’ just as soon as my hands warm up. Yes, Benny, I love you too."