Horrible Harvest

Writers Note: This is a now “deleted chapter.” It has been rewritten to add depth and color.

Harvest flow was when the genius of Daddy showed itself as plainly as any piano piece by Mozart. He leaned in to unique creativity and insane attention to detail. The field was flooded to a depth of six to ten inches, careful not to rise above the first rachis of the plant. Daddy had invented his own irrigation system that allowed him to change the water on the fields daily by harnessing the ebb and surge of the tidal river at our backdoor. If he could have loved his family with near the devotion he give to the paddies, he would’ve been declared a saint by his sons and adored by his wife.

From July through August, me and my brothers kept watch over the field and worked together to make sure Daddy’s preferred water level was maintained. We’d all been trained on how to drain and flood as needed, and it was a process that was about as easy as hopping on one leg while juggling an egg, a knife, and a powder keg at the same time. The worrisome nature of the task was as tiring as any of the backbreaking labor it took to grow rice.

It was smack dab in the middle of harvest flow, when Mr. Miller’s advance man appeared at the edge of the woods, escorting a carriage built for royalty. A well-dressed black man held the reins and guided the two blistering white horses along the narrow path that led to our small house. In the back was a white man adorned with a cream-colored hat on top of a carefully pared bundle of salt and pepper hair. From the distance I held, I could see that his burgundy coat and accompanying outfit was well-fitted. A woman of peculiar beauty sat across from him holding a heavily fringed blue umbrella and wearing a dress to match. The small hat she wore atop her blonde stacked hair served no purpose that I could imagine. Next to the woman was a child, a boy, close to my age by the looks of him. He dressed same as the man. From hat to shoes. If not for the tuffs of curly blond hair snaking out past the brim of his hat, he’d been a miniature copy of the man.

The carriage continued towards the house while Mr. Miller’s advance man turned his spotted horse in our direction and quickened its pace.

“Your Daddy about?”

Douglas peered up at the big man with a scowl on his face. “Who wants to know?”

The advance man returned the scowl with a grin. “You there. The small one.” He said this while staring at Douglas, so we wasn’t exactly sure who he was addressing at first. There was a pause as Charles and I shared a glance.

“I asked you a question, mister,” Douglas said.

The advance man turned his gaze to me. “Your name, boy.”

“Augustus, sir.”

“Augustus, is your Daddy about?”

“Don’t answer him, Augustus,” Douglas growled.

“He’s in the barn, sir,” I said, giving not a single solitary consideration to Douglas’s commands.

The advance man turned his horse toward the house. “Run tell him he’ll find Mr. and Mrs. Miller paying a visit with Mrs. Tennyson in your kitchen.”

“No, sir,” Douglas said. “My little brother won’t do no such thing until you tell me your name.”

I ran to the barn as if Douglas hadn’t objected.

“Goddamn it, Augustus.”

I kicked up slush, mud, and water all the way to the barn and poked my head inside, nearing a state of nary a speck of oxygen in my lungs. “Daddy.” Drawing a breath. “Mr. Miller.” Drawing in another breath. “He’s here.”

Daddy was hammering out a piece to replace a worn-out gear in his irrigation system. “Wha-choo say, boy?”

“Mr. Miller. He and his missus are visiting with Momma.”

Daddy looked startled and intrigued all at once. He dropped the hammer and toothy metal piece he was working on and ran to the door of the barn. “Lord above. What’re they doing here?”

“His advance man didn’t say.”

“Would you look at that carriage. Cost more than half this farm.”

Daddy started beating the dirt from his clothes and kicking the mud from his boots. “Gather up your brothers. We’re all to pay our respects to Mr. Miller. You hear me? Be on your best. Tell your brothers the same. Any one of you get out of line, you’ll be fertilizer by sundown.”

“Yes, sir.” I stopped just before exiting the barn. “There’s a boy with them.” I don’t know why I felt need to tell him about the boy. In my mind, it felt as though Daddy was entitled to know that a strange child was in his house. He didn’t care for the company of his own children. S’pose I felt as though he should prepare himself before meeting up with one he didn’t know. 

“Fine. That’s just fine. You and Charles will make friends with him. Keep Douglas away from him. He’s not to mix-malley things about for me with his bullheadedness. He’s to keep his mouth shut, and his hands in his pocket. You tell him exactly that. You tell him Daddy won’t have it any other way. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, sounding a tad amused. I’d never seen Daddy outright nervous before. It was as if he was about to meet royalty.

I give Douglas Daddy’s message, and he responded by slapping me on the back of my head and telling me to mind my business, and that he’d do whatever the hell he wanted. Daddy’s threats only worked when they shot out of Daddy’s mouth. Bouncing off the tongue of young’un like me didn’t carry no scare to it.

We waited for Daddy on the edge of the field nearest the house. He fast-walked it past us, and we all took notice that he hadn’t so much removed the dirt from his hands and face as he’d polished it. He had a sheen of spit on every inch of exposed skin.

Stepping inside the house, we was witness to Mrs. Miller seated at our kitchen table with the boy in her lap. Mr. Miller and his advance man stood near the fireplace mumbling to one another. Didn’t sound like they was speaking actual words. It was if they’d mastered a secret language that only the two of them knew. All the guests were sipping on glasses of water.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Daddy said with some cheer in his voice, a tone that chilled me more than the usual stitches of rage that held his words together.

Mr. Miller stepped forward, and I took note that he sported a spectacular set of sideburns and a finely groomed mustache. Unlike Daddy, he looked clean and polished. “This must be one Horace Tennyson,” he said, accepting Daddy’s hand despite its shameful state of filth.

“Yes, sir,” Daddy responded. “Yes, sir. That would be me, and I’m to guess you are Mr. Miller.”

“Cameron Miller.” He extended his hand to direct our attention to the kitchen table. “My boy, Kenneth, and the queen of the Miller brood, Isabel.” The boy looked away nervious-like, but Mrs. Miller give us a broad smile.

“What a fine grouping of lads you are,” she said. “Mr. Stockton warned us you were a good-looking bunch, but I’m afraid his praise was far too mild. Shame on you, Mr. Stockton.”

Mr. Miller’s advance man nodded with regard. “My apologies, ma’am.”

It was only then that I realized that this was the first time I’d heard the advance man’s name.

“You’ll have to forgive the young one,” Mr. Miller said. “He’s afflicted with startling shyness.”

“He’s blessed with introspection,” Mrs. Miller said, hugging her son.

Mr. Miller chuckled. “Of course, dear. I misspoke. As always. As you can see, Mr. Tennyson, I’m but an oafish spectator when it comes to the raising of our son. My wife has complete dominion over that venue of our family. I simply provide the toil and treasure.”

“Yes, sir,” Daddy said. “A wise arrangement. My wife – You’ve met Mrs. Tennyson – Margaret Grace – Grace.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Miller said.

“A lovely hostess,” Mrs. Miller responded.

Momma smiled politely. “You’re too kind.”

“Yes, too kind,” Daddy agreed without thought. “As I was saying, my wife and I have the same arrangement – with the boys, I mean. She is in charge of their rearing – As long as it doesn’t interfere with their labors.”

Charles and I shared a sideways glance. There wasn’t nothing that Daddy didn’t take charge of in our household. He wasn’t rearing children as much as he was housing and abusing farmhands.

“We men are better used in the service of familial commerce,” Mr. Miller said when he was struck with a thought. “I almost forgot. We’ve brought a gift.” He quickly stepped to the front door.

“A gift?” Daddy said. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Miller said. “We’ve shown up unannounced. Never has a gift been more necessary.”

“Ferguson,” Mr. Miller called out to the carriage driver. “Ferguson! The gift. Bring it to me, man. There under the aft bench. Aft, Ferguson. The other one.” Mr. Miller groaned. “He is a good-natured negro, but he is a little light on the cognitive skills. Fine driver, but I would not encourage the advancement of his bloodline.”

Ferguson appeared at the door holding a gift wrapped in a gold silken cut of cloth tied by a purple lace ribbon. Mr. Miller took it from him and said in a flippant tone, “Fine. Fine. Off with you now, Ferguson. Tend to the horses.”

Momma spoke up. “Is your man in need of water – Mr. Ferguson, I mean?”

Mr. Miller looked at her as if she had asked the dumbest question one could ask. “Negroes are built for endurance, Mrs. Tennyson. Ferguson can go for days with but a drop of water.” He entered the kitchen space and handed the gift to Momma.

Momma hesitated before taking it. “My, my, the wrapping is a vestige of something truly spectacular.”

Mrs. Miller groaned. “I’m afraid the wrapping is far more spectacular than the gift.”

“And this is where I own the choosing of the gift,” Mr. Miller said. “And Isabel chose the wrapping, which is meant to appeal to you, Mrs. Tennyson. My dear, you were right, as always.”

“I’ve more of the fabric,” Mrs. Miller said. “You’re welcome to as much as you want. It is from Italy. We’ve just returned.”

Momma blushed and carefully unwrapped the gift. It was a book.