I scramble out of the cab to see how much damage I caused, but I’m still in the same patch of wheat as when I started.
I can’t understand it. I’ve heard of sleepwalking, but sleep-plowing? And it looks like I’ve been going over the same pattern in the wheat over and over again, like a crazy person.
As I head back to the house, I keep listening for hooves in the wheat. I know it was only a dream, but it seemed so real to me. My heart aches. It’s more than melancholy … more than dread … it almost feels inevitable, like the first frost has settled into my blood. Trying to rub the goose bumps from my arms, I head inside.
I walk as quietly as possible into the living room and pull a quilt over Mom. I realize she’s only pretending to be asleep, but I don’t have the strength to deal with her tonight … or the flies.
I check in on Noodle. She’s all snuggled in. Still no sign of her gross doll. I’m walking by Jess’s room when I see a shadow moving back and forth under her door, like she’s pacing.
“Jess?” I knock. The pacing stops. I don’t know what to say to her. I know she’s probably still upset about what happened at the Harvest Festival. I keep thinking I should tell her about what happened to Jimmy, but I don’t want to make things worse.
“You’re up late,” I say, and then shake my head. That was a stupid thing to say. “I mean … I just want you to know, I’m here for you. If you need to talk, or anything.”
She doesn’t answer, but I can hear her breathing, like she’s got her face pressed right against the keyhole.
I start to leave and then double back. “Oh, and I wanted to give you this.” I pull the wad of money from my back pocket and slide it halfway under her door. “There’s a hundred and eighty-two bucks there. For those clothes you wanted. And for the record, I don’t care if you cut holes in them.”
I wait for a reply—a thanks, a fuck you, anything, but all she does is pull the money in.
It brings an unexpected smile to my face. That’s a start.
“’Night, Jess.” I back away from her door to go to my room.
I don’t want to sleep, because I don’t want to dream, so I sit by the window staring out over the wheat. I glance down to see Hammy doing the exact same thing.
Whatever’s happening, it all leads back here. I have to finish the last harvest, before it’s too late.
The first frost is coming.
I can feel it.
33
AS I’M heading to school, I make a last-second turn onto Hammond Street. It feels like Old Blue knows where I’m going before I do—Oakmoor. I park a few blocks away in front of the Miller lumber yard and head over on foot. I don’t want anyone knowing my business.
There’s a couple of abandoned wheelchairs out front. A man sitting under a tree, rocking back and forth, while a nurse stands over him. The front of the building’s painted yellow, which seems like it would be cheerful, but it looks more urine-stained than anything else. A little chime goes off as I open the cracked glass door.
“Be with you in a second, hon,” Mrs. Gifford calls out. “I gotta go, it’s Clay Tate,” she whispers before hanging up. “Did you bring that precious girl with you?” she asks as she puts her dangly banana earring back on and peers over the counter.
“Nope. Just dropped her off at school.”
“Well, she’s a ray of sunshine,” she says, as she unwraps a grape Jolly Rancher and pops it in her mouth. “The patients just love her. She works miracles with the hospice patients. Most kids would be afraid, but not Noodle. She holds their hands and sings that little song. She’s our sweet angel around here, easin’ them right on through to the other side.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
She pats my hand. “What can I do for you, hon?”
“I came about Miss Granger—”
“Are you trying to make an appointment for Jess … or your mom?” She says their names, like they’re dirty words.
“No … I just—”
“Oh, I’m sorry, that was plain rude. I just heard about what happened over at the Harvest Festival and.… never you mind.”
“It’s fine, I just—”
“Doesn’t matter anyway. Emma hasn’t been taking any appointments. Hasn’t been in for months. Ever since she had her last appointment with L.A.W.” She whispers the letters.
“Law?” I ask. “What, with Sheriff Ely?”
“That’ll be the day.” She chuckles. “That man’s as solid as a cement house. No, Lee Aric Wiggins,” she says. “The boy with all the burns.”