1976–2002
Before our white brothers arrived to make us civilized men, we didn’t know any kind of money and consequently, the value of a human being was not determined by his wealth.
—LAME DEER, Lakota Holy Man
He drove Highway 412 out of Guymon, on the endless stretch of asphalt cutting through the maze of expanding corn fields.
Hard to blame a guy for wanting to make a buck on corn these days.
And if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
His pops was probably turning over in his grave under the elm, and not only because he’d joined the rest of Oklahoma in double-cropping with corn. He’d also just bought the neighbor’s parcel to the west. The paperwork on the passenger seat sealed the deal, with a massive loan tied to the farm.
He didn’t want to miss out on the land grab, so he’d jumped on the debt bandwagon with everybody else. Nobody was worried, though. The money had been so good these past few years. International demand for both corn and wheat had doubled, sometimes tripled, how much profit they could turn.
And he had to play the game to make this kind of rain.
He limped toward the house, his right foot dragging against the porch stairs. The shrapnel from Da Nang, buried deep in his hip, had decided to be more of a bitch today than usual. Nothing to complain about, compared to what some of his buddies brought home. That kill-yourself kind of crazy had skipped over him.
He threw the newly recorded deed on the dining room table, next to the October issue of Rolling Stone. Elton John was on the cover, but he’d hadn’t bought the magazine at the mini-mart in Guymon because he wanted to know more about that fruit-ball. Rolling Stone was the only publication willing to print whatever the U.S. Secretary of Agriculture had said to get himself kicked out of the government. The daily newspaper wouldn’t even disclose the exact words.
He understood why, after he leaned over the table and flipped through the magazine to the comment Earl Butz had made.
“I’ll tell you what the coloreds want. It’s three things: first, a tight pussy; second, loose shoes; and third, a warm place to shit. That’s all!”
His eyes widened. Maybe his pops had been right about that guy.
The loudest, most important government voice in agriculture, telling everybody what to do with their farms—“Get big or get out” … “take on more debt” … “pack in more industrial corn to feed cows and corn syrup”—had also said that?
He closed the magazine and headed to the fridge to get a beer, a twinge of apprehension starting to surface.
That racist fuck better not have been wrong about the rest.
The deputy’s hand bumped the paunch lumped over his belt as he pulled the holster snap on his service revolver. He’d never had a distress call like this, with someone he knew from childhood. “Come on, man. Just put the gun down. Your being gone isn’t going to help anything.”
The shell of the man cowering in the corner of the barn kept the shotgun barrel wedged under his own neck. “The hell it’s not. My life insurance policy is worth more than this land is now.”
“They don’t pay on suicide.”
He lifted his chin toward the deputy. “Well, you kill me then.”
“I’m not going to kill you.” A single trail of sweat trickled from his temple, diffusing into the stiff fabric of his uniform. “Just put the gun down.”
“Three years I’ve tried to get somebody to listen.”
“Put the gun down, and I’ll listen.” The deputy watched his friend drop the shotgun barrel to the floor, still white-knuckling the grip. He took his hand off his own firearm. “I’m listening.”
“I did and saw things over there that no human should ever have to do or see, ever.”
“I know. I was in Vietnam too.”
“I drink more than my granddad ever did, just trying to make some of the pictures in my head go away. But nobody cares. Government doesn’t care. They made their decisions behind their big desks that sent me to kill the yellow man, blamed me when I came home, and then they take all of this away. After what I gave to them.”
The deputy took a cautious step forward. “Is that really what this is about? Vietnam?”
“I tried to do the right thing. Started a family. Worked hard. Buried my pops out there under the elm by the creek, with his dad and Choctaw granddad. I made that coffin myself, right here in this barn. Shoveled that dirt with my own hands. We’ve been on this land longer than Oklahoma has been a state. They’re telling me I have to auction it off.”
“You’re not alone. Grain embargo hit everybody around here hard.”
“Maybe. But I’m going to die before they take this land from my family. At least my wife and kid will have something to survive on.”
The deputy took another step toward him, holding out his hand. “I told you, they don’t pay on suicides. How about you give me the gun?”
The shotgun’s tremble slowed to a soft tremor, his friend’s fingers loosening just a little around the grip. “How did you find me?”
He dropped his hand to his side. More conversation, less pressure. “Your wife’s been worried. She’s called us a few times, asking what to do when your mood started getting darker. And when you didn’t show up in Guymon this afternoon for—”
“Guymon?”
“Yeah, you were supposed to meet her there for a meeting with the bank.”
“I told her I wasn’t going to meet somebody so they could tell me what a failure I was.”
“Well, she thought you’d be there. And when you didn’t show up, she called us from the bank. I came straight here.” The deputy again offered the hand that wasn’t on the holster. “You know, the government approved a lot of money to help guys like you last week. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about that.”
“I stopped watching the news a long time ago.”
“Maybe that’s what your meeting was about.”
“Maybe.”
“Will you give me the gun?”
“Will you give it back?”
“One step at a time.”
The deputy noticed his friend’s quaking shoulders settle slightly as the shotgun traded hands. “And listen, man, for what it’s worth, you can get out of this and make something else happen. I’m not sure what, but you’ve always been able to pull things off.”
“I don’t need a self-help seminar right now.”
“I’m just saying, I saw it in you when we were growing up. You could get yourself out of trouble when the rest of us would be grounded for weeks. And remember when we wanted to go see The Who in Oklahoma City? We didn’t have a car, let alone money, or tickets, or permission. You made it all happen. You were always making things happen.”
“This isn’t the same.”
“The hell it’s not. You’re a rainmaker.”
He looked around the main hall of the Masonic lodge, recognizing a few of the other area farmers who’d survived the 1980s downturn. They probably hadn’t all tried to kill themselves, but they must’ve gotten the same invitation he did.
A company man had pulled into his farm last week, claiming to be some kind of scientist. An agronomist, which was something he’d never heard of. “Hey, friend. I was driving by and noticed some pigweed in your field. I think I can help you with that. Don’t mind this fancy word on my business card… . I’m just an expert in soil management and crop production.”
He’d been using atrazine and 2,4-D as herbicides, but the company man thought he could do better. And he was more than a little concerned about weeds growing into his long-awaited profit, finally realized with a little help from Mother Nature, a few chemicals, and Uncle Sam. The right balance between carbaryl and fertilizer made damn near anything grow, including pigweed, so he’d accepted the offer to learn more about this weedkiller during a free dinner at the Masonic lodge.
And now that he was here, he had to admit that the evening was starting out particularly well. His older son had just won an album in the raffle, his wife was getting a free night out with the wives’ club, and best of all, tenderloin kept appearing on his plate.
The company man squeezed his shoulder as he passed by, working the room. “Did I mention, all you can eat?”
Before dessert, he showed some slides with graphs and tables, and said his company’s weedkiller was not only safe, but did the best job out there. “Couldn’t put this in the presentation, but what I will say is that we know what we’re doing. We made Agent Orange to take down the commies’ vegetation in Vietnam, and everyone knows how good that worked.”
He’d been there. He knew.
“Any vets here?”
Almost all the adult males in the room raised their hands.
“Well, thank you for your service. I’m sure you know that 2,4-D was one of two active chemicals in Agent Orange, and I’m here to tell you, you can stop using that on your fields, because what we’re offering is much, much safer.”
The slide of dead pigweed on the screen dissolved into the young child with chemical burns staring at the end of his M16, just before he took the shrapnel hit.
Didn’t take much to send him back to Da Nang.
He excused himself and limped away, hoping that if he escaped the room, he could somehow erase the scene. The men’s room was thankfully empty, and he splashed water from the sink faucet on his face before taking stock in the mirror. He was still hiding plenty of scars under these Carhartts, and not just from the shrapnel. But he hadn’t seen a shrink, like he’d promised he would after he almost blew his own head off. He’d convinced his wife he didn’t need therapy now that things were turning around. And he didn’t—he took pride in manning up and pulling through.
What his cop friend had said about being a rainmaker had spoken to his ego enough to get him focused again. That kick start had been all the therapy he’d needed. And after these last few years on the farm, he did feel like a rainmaker … able to buy his family whatever they wanted for Christmases and birthdays, adding a new combine for himself and just-because surprises for the wife and sons. Hell, just yesterday he’d bought all three of them new Apple computers.
This weedkiller might help him get even better things.
And the dark memory he’d had was just that … a memory.
He wiped his face with a paper towel, and before walking back into the lodge room, he took a last glance at his reflection.
I am alright.
Better than alright.
He placed an order at the feed store the next time he was in town, and the company man delivered the product two weeks later. He could smell death in the first bucket, and the rep winked at him when his older son’s nose wrinkled at the stench.
“Perfectly safe, kid. See this label? EPA says so.”
After a quick demonstration of how to mix the coffee-brown sludge with surfactant and water in the spray tank, the rep stepped back into his sedan with a grin. “Welcome to a new world, boys. And listen, if you really want to make your life easier and lower your costs, use it as a desiccant on that wheat before you harvest. No need to wait on Mother Nature to dry it out.”
His son watched the fancy car pull away, waiting until the rep was out of earshot. “Dad, what’s a desuh-can?”
“Desiccant … a chemical that we spray on the crop, so it all dies at the same time. Don’t have to swath and dry the wheat … just straight cut and harvest. Saves time and money.”
“So we’re killing what we’re harvesting? Why would—”
“Hush, boy. Apple’s dead when you eat it, right? Everything dies, that’s a fact. Just like the Springsteen song says.”
“What Springsteen song?”
“‘Atlantic City.’ I clearly got a lot more important things to teach you than I thought.” He climbed on the tractor and pulled the tank across the lower forty, distributing the mixture out of the boom arms.
His son was waiting for him by the drum of weedkiller when he got back, wanting to help. “I can mix the next batch, Dad. I paid attention.”
He watched his son pour the sludge and surfactant into the spray tank at the right ratio, but recoiled as his kid shoved the hose into the mixture before turning the water on. “Goddamnit, Jake, the water!”
He cranked the spigot handle, thinking a small amount of the sludge and surfactant had probably already siphoned through the hose and back into the well, but he wasn’t overly concerned. The well was deep, and the weedkiller was safe. After all, the EPA said so—and that company man seemed like a hell of guy. Why would he lie?
He pulled the hose from the tank and let the water run for a couple of seconds. A little foamy, but probably just air bubbles.
“Dad, I’m thirsty.”
He handed the hose to his son. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Choctaw ranch hand jump the roundpen fence and run toward them, and before Jake had even taken a drink, the old Indian had ripped the hose away.
“Evil water. Stay away.”
Nobody was going to tell his son what to do, especially an old Indian. “Leave the boy alone, hear? Mind your business.”
He took the hose from Jake and looked down at the foamy stream, almost clear now, before turning to face the Choctaw, staring at him while he drank.
“Tastes fine.”
He stared across the field at what would soon be golden grain, waving in the wind.
That’s straight out of “America the Beautiful” right there.
His older son was silhouetted against the wheat, standing straight and still as a statue, already much taller than the crop. Which wasn’t saying much, because while they were going to yield a shit-ton this year, the plants hadn’t really reached their usual height.
But at least his son was growing.
Growing, like their bank account.
And this was what made America great.
Ingenuity.
Free enterprise.
Capitalism.
The company knew he needed a better weedkiller and made him one. And then, just a couple of years ago, they started fixing the corn seeds to be resistant to their product, so there was no real limit on how much he could spray.
They weren’t making special wheat seeds yet, so he could still use the weedkiller as a desiccant, like he was about to do now. This strategy had been a game changer… . Sure, he might have to use a lot, but in two weeks, this whole spread would be evenly dried. He’d harvest soon after, then plant corn.
Double-cropping was paying off. The yield on both corn and wheat had been incredible this year, so profitable that he’d been able to pay off this combine his wife had been so worried about. She’d been concerned about buying out their neighbor to the east, too, but now they had close to sixteen hundred acres, producing all year long. Jake was going to have a hell of a Christmas, and so was she.
Rainmaker, right?
He sat in the air-conditioned cockpit and looked across the field at the old elm, wishing his great-grandfather could see what had become of the land. He didn’t know much about him, other than the faint, diffused stories about how he’d been granted this homestead in the late 1800s and raised corn, squash, and beans in the old ways.
The three aunts, or sisters, or something like that.
He’d probably know more if he’d read those journals his pops had asked him to read. But what was the point? The past wasn’t going to pay for the trips to the Gulf they’d started taking, or the new Escalade for the wife.
Don’t fix what ain’t broke.
He did know that his grandfather had been the first to use a tractor on this land, because he still had the Fordson and John Deere under cover in the shop. His pops had done a lot, too, doubling down on fertilizer and getting the wheat back up after the Dust Bowl years.
His daydream shifted to the real dream he was sitting in.
This new combine was a hell of a present to himself. Practically drove on its own.
He’d outfitted the rig with new spray booms, which meant his job this afternoon would mostly entail hanging out in the cockpit with George Strait, Randy Travis, and Alan Jackson. With any luck, he’d be almost done before his wife’s birthday dinner tonight. And by the time his hangover cleared tomorrow, there’d be plenty of time to finish the job.
He’d have to hustle to get the corn in the ground this year, though. Plow, fertilize, plant, before the heat of summer hit.
He wished he could use the same fertilizer on his older son. Jake was pushing thirteen years old, and while he was getting pretty tall, he had yet to sprout a pubic hair. He only knew because he’d walked in on him brushing his teeth naked before bed a couple of nights ago. Bald as a cue ball, poor kid.
His wife had said they should consider themselves lucky to have a kid at all, let alone two healthy boys. The young couple they’d just bought out couldn’t have kids, and neither could his sister-in-law. Which didn’t make much sense. Used to be, if you wanted to get somebody pregnant, the most you’d need was the backseat of a 302 Mach 1 Mustang. In green, if possible.
Worked for him.
Jake was still standing out there in the last stretch of wheat, facing the setting sun. He’d been a peculiar boy from the start. Quiet. Introverted, according to his mother.
But the kid was conscientious, worked hard, and did his chores, so he’d given up trying to pull him out of his shell. Talking didn’t help much in farming, and his younger brother more than made up for that. Wouldn’t shut up, in fact. Wasn’t much for work, either. Or school. Funny kid, though.
Jake was paying attention to the family trade. Busting his ass, actually.
And someday this would be his, if he ever came out of the field.
“Jake! Get over here!”
Probably has that damn iPod thing in his ears.
“Jake!” He climbed out of the combine and approached his son, covering the twenty yards quietly before putting his arm around him.
“Let’s go, son.”
A humming vibration infused his fingers as he touched the boy’s shoulder.
Trembling.
The kid was trembling.
“What’s wrong?”
His son raised his hand slowly, a single shaking finger pointed straight ahead, just as he’d done in this same field when he was a kid. “He called me here.”
“Who?”
“The man.”
“What man?”
“The man in the wheat.”
And he didn’t ask what the man had said, didn’t need to, because everything was the same, this repeated fleeting scene from a bad horror movie, the grabbing of his son by the wrist and dragging him toward the house, the boy’s body lurching forward, head turned back toward the field, unwilling and unable to look away.