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.

“Hail can’t hurt you now—” Helmer called as Kenny drove through the gate.

Kenny held up his hand in a victory salute. “Nothing can hurt me now!” he cried. Over the noise of the swather’s engine he could not hear his grandfather’s reply.

Saturday, he finished cutting. Sunday dawned clear, but cool. Tuesday came sunny and eighty degrees which cured the top several inches of the windrows until Kenny could chafe the flax between his palms and watch the shiny brown seeds drop into his lap. Now at $26.50 a bushel, he wondered what each seed was worth.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were the days that grainmen, and Kenny, dreamed of: clear and ninety degrees with a hot, dry wind from the southwest. The windrows baked in the yellow oven of the field and shimmered away their moisture. Kenny lined up a parade of grain wagons, trucks, and the auger.

Friday morning at 11:00, two hours later than he had agreed, Jim Hanson came rumbling up the road in his green combine. Kenny ran to meet him. Hanson swung down from the cab. He wore several days of dark beard and a pair of oil-spotted coveralls. He farmed a lot of land, had a lot of machinery, and Kenny often saw his truck at the John Deere dealership in Detroit Lakes. Hanson strode up to the first windrow of flax, hefted an armful, then drew its underside across his nose. He bit into a handful of stems, then looked at the sky.

“Two o’clock,” he said. “It won’t go until two.”

Helmer, who had come up by the combine, nodded in agreement. Hanson climbed back into the cab, shut the door, and slumped backward in immediate sleep. Helmer stepped closer to the combine. He looked closely at the tires, the grease fittings. He stared at the pickup reel, then reached out for one of the spring teeth that rattled to his touch. From his pocket he produced a small pliers and tightened the nut. Hanson did not wake up.

While Hanson slept, Kenny waited and listened to the weather report. It was raining in Omaha, Idaho Falls, Bozeman, and Kalispell.

At 2:30, Hanson sat up, and the combine’s engine coughed alive. He slowly brought up the RPMs until the combine shuddered, engaged the pickup reel, lowered the great mouth into the first windrow, and headed downfield. Like a great green beetle, the combine swallowed the flax and spit out a spray of straw behind. Kenny ran alongside. Oblivious to the roar in his ears and the grit in his nose and mouth, he watched on the plexiglass window of the grain hopper the rising brown tide of seed.

Suddenly, as if from the earth beneath, there was a massive thud and then a clanking sound. The combine shuddered to a stop. Hanson leaped down from the cab, threw his cap on the ground, and began to jump on it.

Kenny drove Hanson home. Hanson stared straight ahead with his jaw clenched. Repairs would take three days. Kenny wondered what a new gearbox cost, but did not ask; rather, he was trying to think of other farmers and their combines.

“Fucking flax,” Hanson muttered. “Windrows that big, you need that big custom equipment from the Dakotas.” Hanson scratched the beard on his throat. “There’s a small crew I know that should be around Fargo right now, headed for South Dakota. Flaherty, an Irishman, that’s the owner. Maybe he’d detour this way and pick up your flax. He’s expensive, though . . .”

“I can pay,” Kenny answered quickly.

At six o’clock that evening, with nearly two hundred dusty, new miles behind him, Kenny located Flaherty’s crew. Ten miles south of Fargo, the four combines were running a staggered front against the last half of a long wheat field. Kenny’s heart billowed with excitement and hope as he closed in on the rumbling, gray Allis-Chalmers gleaners, each of which seemed twice as large as Hanson’s John Deere. He drove up to the motor home parked by the fieldside, where a man, hatless, with coppery hair and binoculars to his eyes stood at the fence watching the gleaners. Kenny’s heart thumped in his ears; he approached the man and introduced himself.

“Flax, huh?” Flaherty said, again lifting his binoculars to the wheat field. “Don’t see much flax around here. But I dunno, a hundred acres isn’t much for a day’s detour. We’re supposed to be down in Sioux Falls tomorrow.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Kenny said.

Flaherty lowered his glasses. A slow grin came into the sunburned creases around his mouth. “Oh, you will, will you?”

Kenny nodded. He realized that Flaherty was about the same age as his father.

“This must be quite a field of flax, then.”

“Sixty bushel,” Kenny said.

Flaherty laughed. He raised his binoculars again. “I’ve been shakin’ grain for twenty years, and I’ve never seen flax run even fifty.”

Kenny suddenly remembered the newspaper article which he had stashed deep in the glovebox of the pickup. He retrieved it and handed it to Flaherty, who fished reading glasses from his pocket and blew away their dust before he read. “Well, hell,” he finally said, “I’ve never yet seen a newspaper could figure bushels. But the pictures look good, yes they do. And you’re this gambler fellow they’re writin’ about?”

“Yessir,” Kenny grinned.

“And you want to gamble on Flaherty?”

“Yessir,” Kenny said.

By three o’clock Saturday afternoon, Kenny began to think he had gambled wrong. Flaherty’s combines had not arrived. He wondered if Flaherty had trouble, gotten lost, or lied to him. Kenny’s grandfather sat at his kitchen table so he could see down the road to the west.

“He’ll come,” Helmer said. “If the man said he would come, he’ll come.”

But the combines did not come Saturday, nor Sunday morning by the time Helmer had driven slowly off to church. Kenny paced the living room. He listened to the 10:00 AM weather. Rain in Billings and Valley City. He cursed but in the same moment heard trucks. Flaherty’s combines, like a caravan of circus elephants, appeared out of a dust cloud from the west. Kenny raced outside to meet them. Flaherty stepped down from the motor home. His eyes were as red as his new beard shadow, and his hands were stained dark with oil.

“On the last forty acres, whatever could go wrong, went,” he said, looking over the flax field at the same time. Without waiting for a reply, he walked quickly into the flax. He ran one arm underneath a windrow, the other arm over the top, and hefted the grain.

“Be damned,” he said, a grin coming over his face. “I’m in the wrong business. Ought to be growing this stuff instead of shakin’ it. Unload those ornery critters,” he called to his men, “we’ve got a real field here.”

Kenny started to speak, but Flaherty turned away to direct his men. He looked back at his grandfather’s house. The two porch windows were eyes, the door a mouth. He called to Flaherty again, but at the same moment a combine roared alive, and his voice was lost. The crew released the combines from their tether-chains, then lowered the ramps. The combines slowly crept toward the ground, then formed a convoy pointed toward the field. As the last combine touched the ground, Kenny saw his grandfather’s truck pull into the yard and then come toward the field. In his dark suit, Helmer walked slowly to Kenny and the combines. For long moments, Kenny met his grandfather’s eyes. Then he ran in front of Flaherty’s combine and blocked the way.

“We can’t do it,” Kenny shouted.

Flaherty leaped to the ground. “What the hell you talking about?” he said. “I’m telling you, the grain is ready.”

“No, it’s not that,” Kenny said.

“So what the hell is it then?”

“It’s Sunday,” Kenny said slowly. “This is my grandfather’s land, and he doesn’t farm on Sunday.” The other drivers climbed down and stood behind Flaherty, who turned his gaze to Helmer.

“Sunday?” Flaherty said. “Old man, are you nuts?” The other drivers laughed. “You’ve got a field of flax like this one, with rain no more than a day away, and you’re worried about Sunday?”

Helmer met the men’s gaze in silence.

Flaherty looked away and ran his hands through his hair. “Goddamn but I’ve never run into this before.” He turned to Kenny, pulled him aside. “Look,” he said, “Sunday don’t matter to us, it sure don’t matter to the flax, and it probably don’t matter to you. So why not take your granddad back to the house and fix him a cup of coffee or something? We’ll take care of the flax and be on our way. And in a few days he’ll forget all about it.”

But Kenny could only shake his head. “I gave my word,” he said.

Flaherty’s red-rimmed eyes flared wider. “Look, you hired me. I’m here. If you want me to wait, I’ll wait. It’s not my flax. But every hour we sit here will cost you the same as if we were rolling.”

“I’ll pay,” Kenny said.

“Bunch of fruitcakes,” one of the drivers muttered.

“—get some shut-eye, anyway,” another said as they turned away.

Flaherty strode into the motor home, slammed the door, and then there was silence in the field.

That night Kenny lay in his bed upstairs, his eyes open, listening, waiting. The sound that he knew would come fell like a whisper on the shingles, at first so faint that Kenny mistook it for the rush of his own blood in his ear against the pillow. A steady patter. Then a drumming. Rain. Kenny rose from his bed and went to the window. In the yard, under the white glow of the mercury yardlight, the combines shone wetly like great blocks of ice.

The rain continued Monday and Tuesday.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Flaherty said on Wednesday. He was clean shaven now, his face puffy from sleep. “You’re not on our regular route. And we’ve got to be in South Dakota. Maybe somebody else . . .”

Kenny nodded. He felt older, harder, like some part of him had turned to wood or stone. “How much do I owe you?” was all he said.

“Just for Sunday,” Flaherty replied.

Kenny wrote the check. Flaherty looked at it, then across to the flax, and finally to Helmer’s house. He suddenly cursed. In one motion he crumpled the check, flung it down, and ground it into the mud with his boot. Then he turned away and waved his convoy down the road.

Thursday the skies cleared, but only for the afternoon. Friday and Saturday the rain came again. The windrows of flax rusted brown, and from their wet weight began to crush their supporting stubble until they lay shrunken and flat on the cold, soaked earth. The rains and mist continued for the next two weeks.

“It’s going to clear up,” Helmer would say every day. “There’s still time.”

But Kenny had no words for him, or for anyone. He continued to visit his grandfather in the evenings; they read in silence. He was glad his grandfather spoke no more or less than usual. But often in the early mornings, on his way to the french-fry plant, Kenny saw his grandfather walking along the windrows of flax, poking at them with a fork, stooping to heft their weight. Once at sundown the sky cleared briefly. The orange light slanted harshly across the now-sprouting windrows, and Kenny saw his grandfather standing motionless, far out among the pale green rivers of fire.

September, however, brought Indian summer. The sky cleared, and the sun shone hotly for a week. The flax rows dried on top. If the windrows could be turned to dry their undersides—a hayrake might work—there was still a chance for a partial harvest.

Kenny quit welding again and readied the rake. On a Wednesday, along with four neighbors who had shown up uninvited with their own tractors and rakes, Kenny began to turn the flax.

Still sodden underneath, and heavier than any hay, the flax wound and webbed itself around the reel of the rake. Every few yards it had to be cut away with butcher knives. The rakes’ drive belts began to slip, then smoke with the smell of burning rubber. One by one the neighbors’ tractors turned away from the windrows. Kenny continued. The drive chains began to chatter and slip and grind away gear teeth. On the steering wheel, his left hand felt wet inside his glove. He saw that he had sliced through the leather with the butcher knife. Suddenly the main chain parted and flopped. Then, at last, he too pulled away from the flax.

He drove toward Helmer and the other farmers by the gate. Helmer waved with his fork.

“Go back—keep going!” he called to Kenny. He waved for the neighbors to turn around, but they looked away.

Kenny got down and walked to Helmer. “It won’t turn,” he said.

But his grandfather shook his head. “It’s got to be turned. When it’s turned, then we can get that red-haired man to come back. With his combines he can—”

“No!” Kenny suddenly shouted. He grabbed his grandfather by the shoulders and shook him violently. “It’s finished, over, over, over, over, can’t you see that?”

But his grandfather would not look him in the face. His eyes were welded to the windrows of flax. Kenny left his grandfather there in the field. He could think only of going to bed, of retreating deep into his quilts. He did not want to speak or even think of anything for a long time.

Kenny awoke, sometime after dark, uncertain of the time. Moonlight shone in his window, and he stumbled toward it to look outside. He thought of Flaherty’s combines, wet in the white light. But as he knew it would be, the yard was empty. The only visible movement was some animal far out in his field of flax. Suddenly Kenny cried out as he realized the figure in the field was his grandfather, on his hands and knees.

He raced down the stairs, shouting to wake his parents, and ran barefoot across the yard into the flax.

“Grandpa—” he called, nearing him.

Helmer turned his face to look. A black course of blood ran from his nose across his cheek. Beside him lay his fork.

“Few more hours, maybe,” his grandfather breathed, “have it turned . . . get that red-haired man back . . .”

“No—” Kenny cried. He grabbed away the fork, seeing for the first time that his grandfather had turned by hand nearly a quarter mile of one windrow.

“Yes, must turn . . . ,” Helmer breathed. He struggled to his feet and caught the wooden handle. “Let me finish. Please. Want to finish this tonight.” He pulled against Kenny. Suddenly Kenny was holding his grandfather, feeling his woolen shirt wet with sweat and his old heart shuddering inside his chest.

“You’re a good boy, Kenny,” Helmer whispered, and kissed him like he used to do when Kenny was small. Kenny tasted his grandfather’s blood. But then Helmer slowly pushed him away.

“Stop him—” Kenny’s mother cried from behind.

Kenny’s father stepped forward, but stopped at Kenny’s command.

They watched. Helmer, one forearm clutched across his chest as if to hold his heart, again drove his fork into the grain. Staggering against the moonlight, he slowly worked his way downfield into the dark.