I’ve grown up on a farm; I know what happens when large animals die. They’re dragged to the side of the road and a rendering company is called. A truck removes the carcasses, then processes the dead animals. For what? I don’t want to know. It’s a gruesome undertaking that I’d rather not think about, but the alternative is even worse: dead animals rotting all over the county and polluting the ground and air as they decompose. I think it might even be illegal.
Sliding the gory photograph to the bottom of the pile, I quickly flip through the others. There are several pictures of a tractor in a field. It’s a shiny green John Deere pulling what looks like a disc, and behind that there’s a white tank. I can’t make out the lettering on the side of the tank, but the red and orange warning triangle is familiar enough. I’ve seen these tanks all over the Midwest, and I’d bet a hundred bucks it’s filled with anhydrous ammonia.
I don’t know much of anything about anhydrous ammonia, but I’ve read the warnings on the side of the tankers while waiting at stoplights or for the train to pass through town. I know that it’s caustic and flammable and poisonous. The tanks are all plastered with the universal sign for danger: a skull and crossbones. I also know that anhydrous ammonia is used as a fertilizer. It’s hard to understand how something so hazardous could be beneficial, but I’ve never claimed to understand farming.
The last picture is dark, obviously taken at twilight, and filled with blurry silhouettes. No flash was used. Still, I can see that it appears to be a group of people with shovels around a skid loader attached with a saw-toothed dirt bucket. I couldn’t even begin to guess what they’re doing, and I’m starting to feel like I don’t want to know.
I stack the photos in the same order that I found them and carefully slot them back into the envelope. When I slide the package into Jonathan’s backpack, my entire body prickles with goose bumps, even though the air is warm. There’s something really wrong about those pictures. Something foul. It’s not just the dead carcasses or the warning signs all over the tank. The perspective is off, and every shot has a rushed, furtive quality to it that makes the photos feel urgent somehow.
I’d love to run out of Jonathan’s room and slam the door, but I can’t shake the feeling that I saw something familiar in the pictures. Something that I missed the first time around. So I grab the envelope again and flip through them over and over until I spot it.
On the third tractor picture, the one with the tank, I can just make out a truck in the foreground. There’s only a thin sliver of the vehicle visible, a portion of the black tailgate, but at the very edge is a stylized paint job. Or maybe it’s a decal of some sort. It looks like the distinctive mark of a branding iron, all burnt and black at the edges, with intersecting perpendicular lines. Suddenly I know exactly what it is: the Tate Family Farms logo. The T almost looks like a cross with two interlocking Fs on either side.
I replace everything again, then hurry out of Jonathan’s room, neglecting to be as stealthy as I probably should. But what does it matter? If Mom hears me banging around upstairs, she’ll just assume I’m getting ready for the party later, shuffling between the bathroom and my bedroom. Even if she caught me closing Jonathan’s door, I wouldn’t care. Not anymore.
My messy room feels like a sanctuary after snooping through Jonathan’s deceptively perfect space. At least my dirty laundry is out in the open, scattered across the floor and balled up in a corner of my open closet. I sink onto the side of my bed and close my eyes, head aching and heart threatening to pound out of my chest. I can’t make sense of what I’ve seen, but I know that it’s the key to everything.
Why would Jonathan have photographs of the Tates’ farm? I can only assume that they’re of a set, because it’s completely illogical to imagine that my brother has been traipsing around the county taking pictures of random fields. So, dead animals, anhydrous ammonia, digging in the dark. I’m no scientist, but it seems pretty clear to me that any one of those things could cause the sort of contamination that would compel the Murphys to sue.
So maybe Jonathan isn’t angry with Cal and Beth after all. Maybe he’s collecting evidence to help them.
The thought sends me to my feet. If it was difficult for me to believe that Jonathan would be willing to hurt the Murphys in any way, it’s even harder to swallow that he’s a sort of double agent. Hardworking, earnest, what-you-see-is-what-you-get Jonathan Baker is neither conniving nor a great actor. Surely if he’s trying to cozy up to the Tates to get dirt on their unethical farming practices they can see straight through him. Yes, Jonathan likes to party from time to time, and yes, he has a mischievous streak, but his character is solid and he’s a terrible liar.
I just don’t know what to make of any of this, but as the sun shifts to the west and Jonathan continues to ignore my texts, I decide that there’s only one course of action for me to take: I’m going to the Pattersons’ party. Of course Ashley will be there—it’s her house, after all—and I’m certain I’m the last person she wants to see right now. But their annual barbecue is also the place that I have the greatest likelihood of seeing Jonathan. And Sullivan. This time, they won’t shake me off.
* * *
The party is in full swing by the time I arrive. I’ve taken my own car instead of catching a ride with Law and Reb so that I can leave when I want to, but also because I can’t stomach the thought of spending hours at the Pattersons’ house when I know I’m not wanted. I pull up when the sun is low on the horizon, and I have to park nearly two blocks away. No worries. I’m in no hurry, and already battling a sense that I shouldn’t have come at all.
Still, I step out of my car into the July heat and begin to make my way toward the house that feels like a second home to me. Ashley’s rich—or, her parents are—but that never bothered me growing up. The Pattersons are generous with their time and resources, and I was always welcome at their pool, in their boat, or curled up on the trundle bed in Ashley’s giant room. When I was little, her life felt like a bit of a fairy tale to me, but she was always willing to let me be a part of it. I’ve repaid her kindness with betrayal, and it guts me.
I’ve intentionally missed the potluck picnic and neighborhood barbecue that’s become a Jericho tradition. And I’ve missed the pool games and cannonball contest, too (Jonathan won last year). I feel a pang of disappointment mixed with a premature sense of nostalgia. This was not how I pictured spending my last summer at home, and I’m queasy with a sense of loss.
As I near the Pattersons’ house, I begin to encounter pockets of people who have spilled out of their large, fenced-in yard and onto the street. It’s getting dark enough for fireworks, and several children are holding giant sparklers. Others are shooting off small mortars on the road.
“Look out!” someone shouts, and at that very moment a Roman candle pops and emits a ball of fire only a few feet away from where I’m walking. I jump into the grass and back away, watching the firework until the final burst of light sputters out and the pipe on the cement is left smoking.
“Sorry about that!” A teenage boy laughs. He’s young; I don’t recognize him. “Enter at your own risk.”
He has no idea.