“He’s okay. They transferred him to the hospital in Munroe.”
“Because of a bloody nose?”
“He has leukemia, June.”
I’m stunned. Cal has always been the picture of health. Tall and lean with a head full of thick hair that you can tell used to be as black as Jonathan’s. There’s something vigorous about him. Hale. It’s hard to imagine that someone like Cal could succumb to anything. Finally I manage, “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
“Tell Cal and Beth that.”
“I will, of course.” My mind is racing. “How long have you known? What do they need? Can I help? Jonathan, I want to help.”
He sighs. “Slow down. They just found out. Still trying to wrap their heads around it, I think. And then Baxter was killed, and now Cal’s in the hospital…”
“They admitted him?”
“They’re keeping him overnight just to run a few tests and make sure his blood pressure is stabilized.”
“Is Beth okay?”
“What do you think?” He shoots me a grim look.
I can’t stop myself from peppering him. I have so many questions. “Will he do treatment?”
“I think that’s the plan. It’s really early, June. I don’t have a lot of answers for you.”
We’re silent for a few minutes as Jonathan navigates the dark county roads. The stars are out in full force, a scatter of diamonds in a black, moonless sky. Usually I’d lean forward against my seat belt and marvel at the constellations through the windshield, but I’m rooted to the bench tonight.
I whip toward my brother as a thought occurs to me. “Wait. Is this…” I can’t find the words, and even when I do, they seem illogical. Impossible. I say them anyway. “Does Cal’s cancer have anything to do with their water? With the trouble with the Tates?”
“Cal and Beth think so.”
It’s a sobering thought. Suddenly the fields around us seem ominous, the tufts of newly sprouted corn menacing. I’ve been told my whole life that this is a place of abundance. A fruited plain. It feels corrupted now.
“That’s insane,” I whisper, more to myself than Jonathan.
He pounces anyway. “It’s not. It’s all connected, June.”
It’s obvious he’s been spending a lot of time with the Murphys. They talk like this all the time. About how we’re poisoning ourselves with chemicals, sacrificing our own lives on the altar of corporate greed. According to the Murphys, big agra isn’t just the end of the small family farm, it’s the destruction of our planet. It’s why they bought the acreage in the first place, and why they work so hard to grow everything, according to Beth, “the way God intended it.” They hand out homemade pamphlets at their roadside stand, cultivate bee-friendly plants, and eat clean. They aren’t strict vegetarians, but I do know that the only meat they’ll touch is whatever they’ve raised on their own little plot of land and butchered locally. Admirable, I suppose. But it doesn’t seem as if any of it has made a difference.
“I know,” I soothe Jonathan. “It’s not fair. I didn’t mean that I don’t believe you. It’s just a lot to take in. And you have to admit, people get sick all the time. Cancer doesn’t discriminate.”
“Thanks for that, oh wise one.” The sarcasm in Jonathan’s voice is so thick I can practically see it dripping in the air between us.
“You don’t have to be mean.”
Jonathan ignores me. “Remember Petunia?”
Of course I remember Petunia. The Murphys bought an Angus calf a couple of years ago and raised her in the pasture behind the small stable. She really was a sweet thing. Big brown eyes and a gentle manner that made her seem more like a pony than a cow. But when she was eighteen months old, Petunia disappeared.
“We’ll have lots of steaks and hamburger, of course,” Beth told me when I asked where Petunia had gone. “But also bone broth and liver and tongue. Don’t worry, June, we won’t waste a bit of her.”
The Bakers are carnivores through and through, and I eat my fair share of hamburgers hot off the grill and Iowa chops with meat so tender it falls off the bone. But I have never named an animal I later ate. It seemed a little barbaric to me that the Murphys would do exactly that.
“What about Petunia?” I ask with some trepidation.
“When they butchered her, she was so full of tumors they had to condemn the meat.”
I’m instantly sickened. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I groan. “That’s disgusting. Why did you tell me that?”
“Because it’s true. Because Petunia drank the Murphys’ well water her entire life and she was so sick Cal said he’d never seen anything like it. It’s why they started testing the water in the first place.”
“You don’t know that they’re connected.”
“How could they not be? Petunia was just the first of many. And now Cal?”
“What are you saying, Jonathan? Do you think this was intentional? Are the Tates out to get the Murphys?”
I can feel Jonathan clam up. He goes really still, really quiet, just like he used to when we were kids and I pressed him past his breaking point. My brother is all ice when he’s angry, and the air in the cab is suddenly so cold that I reach to close the vents nearest to me. Of course, it’s just the air-conditioning turned up high, but Jonathan’s mood feels like a tangible thing to me.
“Talk to me,” I say.
“We’re here,” Jonathan responds.
Sure enough, we’re on yet another gravel road, pulling onto yet another rural farm where we’re greeted by a muddy black lab and a row of cars and trucks parked neatly in the grass. Suddenly I could scream. If all this is true, why doesn’t anybody care? Why aren’t we raising hell and making changes and transforming the world? I’ve been told all my life that we are the salt of the earth, the quiet, hardworking backbone of a culture that offers life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. This feels like death, bondage, despair. I don’t understand. But when I turn to question Jonathan further, I find that he’s already half-gone, one foot on the running board as he hops out of the truck.
“Wait!” I fumble with my seat belt and slide out of the truck myself, running to catch up with him as he heads toward the field where a pallet fire is burning bright enough to signal space. I grab his arm, spin him to face me. “You can’t just tell me all this and walk off. What are you doing? What are we going to do?”
Jonathan shakes me off. “Don’t worry about it, June. It’s not your problem.”
“If it’s your problem, it’s my problem,” I tell him, linking my pinky with his in a gesture of solidarity. When we were in grade school and kids used to tease us because of our unusual connection, we discovered that we could pass each other in the halls and twine our littlest fingers together for less than a second and no one would be the wiser. It was comforting for both of us to know that no matter what happened, we had each other’s backs. I want Jonathan to know that now—to know that I’m here for him. Always.
But he jerks away. “You’re leaving, June. It’s not your problem at all.”
“You dragged me out here,” I remind him, feeling a nasty little sparkle of anger. “I thought you wanted to talk.”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. Just stay away from Sullivan.” Then he takes off at a lope and the darkness swallows him up.
Stay away from Sullivan. Really? Surely Jonathan knows me better than that. His warning is a challenge, and I have a sudden, perverse desire to find Sullivan and throw myself at him right in front of my brother.
I’m fuming, burning with indignation as I wonder if I should try to snag a ride home or go grab one of the beers that I’m sure is turning lukewarm in a cooler near the fire. When I feel something brush against my hand I startle, but it’s just the dog nudging me for a pat. I oblige and give her a little ear scratch, too, even though she’s filthy and smells like she’s been swimming in a ditch. I’m still petting her when a form takes shape in the shadows and someone calls my name.
“June? June!”