On Halloween, as a thundershower blasted across the sweet potato field, warm droplets poking and slicking all the leaves and drenching everybody, since they had to continue working, the man the management had identified as Sextus Fusilier himself finally drove his red tractor through on an inspection. Supposedly these took place every month, but no one could remember one for the last six. They happened as randomly as possible, because, the crew said, Sexy enjoyed the element of surprise.
Why he chose to drive the grinding old tractor was the subject of frequent debate. Some said that despite its slowness, Sextus could use it to get to anywhere on the vast grounds via a system of shortcuts from his house that no one else knew about. He could get around faster than you could by taking the roads, all of which were unpaved and full of potholes the size of salad bowls. Others called it a purely sentimental attachment, claiming that Sextus still craved a connection to the land he had grown up tilling and which had enriched him to the point where he didn’t need it anymore. The vehicle had become quaint and unnecessary, but its symbolic value to Sextus grew with the years. A legend circulated that his father had used what little he made from his beet farm to take out a loan for it and died the day after he finished paying it off.
You could hear the tractor coming long before it arrived, first a faint buzz and then a growl almost as loud as a helicopter descending on a dusty field; you’d see a cloud gather at the horizon and soon a hatted figure in overalls bouncing in the tractor seat, then he’d be on you. He always seemed to have a grin on his face. At first it looked like delayed amusement at a joke he’d heard earlier, but in his presence you got the sense that the joke was you, and your life, and the fact that everything in it depended on his mood.
Why wouldn’t a man with that kind of power be happy all the time? TT had said. I know I’d be happy all the time.
Happy? asked Hannibal. Man, I don’t get it. He smiling all the damn time but the motherfucker ain’t never happy.
This time Sextus came in rain gear, a bright yellow triangle atop the red tractor, with his craggy face sticking out of the top, the drawstring of the hood pulled tight against it. If Sextus hadn’t created an atmosphere among the workers and the supervisors of fear mixed with admiration, Eddie would have laughed, the man looked that comical. But as soon as How heard the engine in the distance, he immediately gathered everybody for the 5:00 p.m. roll call, at 4:50, probably to make himself look efficient, maybe to gain the workers’ cooperation, their gratitude.
Sextus swung his leg off the tractor and took his place beside How and the group of wet black and Latino men and women. They wore torn cutoffs and dirty T-shirts that had darkened with sweat and rain, and most of them fidgeted tightly, chafing against the requirement that they stand still. The rain surged, sending gray streaks through the air and muddying the dirt.
Sextus, after consulting with How, turned his attention to the roll call and surveyed the group of workers. They might or might not have met his approval; his perpetual smile made it difficult to tell. Usually the only indication they received would come later, from How, who would describe Sextus’s dissatisfaction and threats without being able to prove that orders had come directly from him.
As the crew, including Eddie, called out their names, Sextus’s expression modulated to a more neutral smile, down from a beam to a blank grin. He took several steps toward the group and his attention settled on Eddie, who stood in the second row next to Darlene. He grabbed rain off his forehead and threw it aside, then stepped back to face How and Jackie.
How, how old is that young fellow in the second row?
Chuckling, How looked down. Oh, Eddie. He don’t look sixteen, does he?
No, he don’t.
Don’t worry. It’s cool.
It’s cool?
It’s cool, How insisted. He’s a good worker.
Eddie had never heard How say anything so complimentary; he planted his feet and stood a little more proudly.
The brighter smile returned to Sextus’s face, and he slogged through the mud in a rectangle around the group, as if this cursory glance could tell him very important things about them. As he closed the rectangle, he returned to the same spot in front of the group and examined Eddie more carefully. Eddie looked away, and then peeked, looked away again, then raised his head but didn’t face Sextus, the way an infantryman might stand in front of a general. Sextus untied and pushed back his yellow hood, revealing a head of silver-streaked, thinning hair.
Sixteen? Sextus pondered yet again, almost to himself, but with the suggestion that Eddie might want to say the word himself to confirm. Eddie turned his head so that he could figure out what his mother thought. She hugged herself against the rain, which had begun to let up, except that it had brought a post-thundershower breeze and a chill along with it. She stared at Eddie vacantly, then her irises disappeared under her lids, and with a faraway sigh, fluffy with surrender, she looked away.
Sixteen, How said again, this time more definitively.
After a rudimentary inspection of the grounds, the yellow triangle returned to the tractor and started off through the mud. Then it got stuck and everybody had to do unpaid overtime to help unstick it.
Tuck said, Damn, kid, you just lost four years off your life in one minute.
15.
Inertia