Fiction

    They were lounging before the television, Kate snoring faintly against his side, when the knock on the door came.
    Allan carefully shifted his wife aside and went to answer it. He found Nat and Cal Compton, the teenagers from across the road, standing on his porch. Both tall, lanky Nat and chubby, still-awaiting-his growth Cal were wet-eyed and confused.
    "Mr. Fitzgerald," Nat said, "we need some help."
    Allan's brow furrowed. "What's up, Nat?"
    "Pop's dead."
    Cal's young face convulsed. Tears immediately coursed down his cheeks.
    "My God," Allan said. "Come in, come in!"
    He ushered them into the living room, where Kate was reluctantly emerging from slumber. Her eyes lit on the Comptons and flashed immediately to Allan's. He bade them be seated and turned to his wife.
    "We've lost a neighbor."
    "Huh? Who?"
    "Art Compton."
    "Oh my God." She leaped from the sofa, went to the bereaved teens and bundled them immediately in her arms. "I'm so sorry, boys!" Presently they were all crying together.
    Art and I were barely well acquainted enough to use one another's first names. We got along, but I probably know the mailman better than I knew him. I'd have thought Kate knew him even less well than that. But she's the one crying and offering his boys comfort. Is it a male-versus-female thing, or is it a flaw in me?
    When a semblance of possession had returned, Allan said, "When did he pass?"
    Nat was still sniffling against Kate's shoulder. Cal looked up and said, "Just before dinner time. The sheriff only drove off a few minutes ago."
    Kate became alert. She dried her eyes on her sleeve. "Have you boys eaten anything?"
    "Uh, no, Ma'am."
    She rose, pulling them with her. "Come in the kitchen."
    Silence reigned as Kate set the table, Allan defrosted leftover stew in the microwave, and Kate put out glasses and soda. The Compton boys sat motionless, obviously unsure of the protocol of the situation. When laden bowls had been set before them, the boys made to attack their dinners, but Kate held up a hand.
    "First things first." She made the Sign of the Cross, steepled her hands, and bowed her head. The teens followed suit.
    "Lord," she murmured, "we give thanks for the bounties You have granted us. Even in the midst of tragedy, we give thanks. May You bless and keep those we love, especially those who have gone to their eternal rest. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." She raised her head and smiled. "Have at it, boys."
    They ate with obvious appetite. The Fitzgeralds waited in silence.
    "So how can we help?" Allan said as they finished.
    "Well," Nat said, "the sheriff told us there'd be a lady from Child Welfare tomorrow."
    "Oh. You're --"
    "Sixteen in two months," Nat said. "Cal turned thirteen last week."
    "Mr. Fitzgerald," Cal said, "we don't want to go anywhere."
    Kate reached for Allan's hand and gripped it tightly.
    "Then you won't," she said.
    "Kate --"
    She turned a gaze of steel on him.
    "Can you handle disposing of their farm?"
    The teens' eyes went simultaneously wide.
    Huh? "Well, yes, but you know it's not going to be --"
    "Easy to deal with the CWP bureaucrats," she said. "Yes, I know. You leave that part to me." She turned to the boys. "Have you had your fill? For the moment, at least?"
    Nat looked uncertainly at his younger brother. "Yes, Ma'am, we have."
    She rose. "Then let's get to work. Allan, may I have the keys to the truck?"
    He fished them from his pocket and passed them to her without speaking.

    The boys didn't have much. Their clothes and their few amusements took only one trip to bring across the road. Kate installed them in the two unused bedrooms without any hesitation. It was as if she'd already planned for the eventuality and was merely carrying out a long established procedure. Allan assisted as she directed, without offering comment on either the arrangements or the wisdom thereof.
    When all was settled, and the boys had closed their doors to sit in the privacy of their new rooms, Allan pulled Kate into the kitchen, seated the two of them, and took her hands.
    "How are we supposed to pull this off?"
    She shrugged. "We'll manage."
    "And when the CWP busybody comes calling?"
    "Do you think she'll come here, Allan?" She smirked. "I doubt she'll think of it. I dealt with those folks in Kansas. They're barely bright enough to pee without assistance."
    "And if she does think of it?"
    "Fourth Amendment."
    "Huh?"
    She frowned. "Aren't you a lawyer? Doesn't she need a warrant to come onto our grounds without our permission? Or are you opposed to making Nat and Cal part of our family, now that they have none of their own?"
    He recoiled from the anger in her voice.
    "Kate," he said, "I'm with you on this. The problem isn't 'should we,' it's 'can we.' The CWP gal won't be prepared to find them gone, but she won't stay stupid forever. She will come here. And when she does, I'm going to have to do some fancy stepping to prevent her from finding the boys. If I can't, our next visitor will be the sheriff, with a warrant."
    She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and released it slowly.
    "Allan," she said, "we have to do this. It's basic. It's Golden Rule stuff, just like with that dead lawyer you pinch-hit for last year. Besides, these are two innocent kids. Farm kids. They're good kids, you can tell they're good kids just by looking at them. The foster-care system treats kids like tokens. Like little counters you can exchange for monthly checks. They don't deserve to be shoehorned into that. It would ruin them, and I will not permit it."
    She stared hard into his eyes. Her resolve was clearly unbreakable. She'd weighed the rights and the wrongs, had decided on her course, and wouldn't yield even before overwhelming force.
    He'd never loved her so much as in that moment.
    She rose and paced irregularly around the kitchen. Allan did his best to stay calm and let her think. Presently she stopped and looked him full in the eyes.
    "How many men are there in the sheriff's department?" she said.
    "Hm? I don't know. I doubt it's very large, since Onteora doesn't have a state prison or reformatory."
    "Would the police assist the CWP bitch?"
    "I don't know."
    "Find out. I have some errands to run."
    She strode out of the kitchen.

    It was nearly eleven PM when Kate returned to the house. She did not return alone. Accompanying her was a tall, broad-shouldered man of middle years with a mop of red-brown hair, a pleasant, open face, and a Smith & Wesson revolver belted at his hip. His shirt bore the legend Integral Security in tasteful embroidery.
    "Allan," she said, "I'd like you to meet Kevin Conway. He runs the best private security force around here." She smiled hopefully up at Conway. "I brought him here to discuss what we can do to make ourselves...safe."
    Conway held out his hand. Allan took it.
    "It's a pleasure, Mr. Fitzgerald."
    "Likewise," Allan said. "Tell me please, how do you know Kate?"
    Kate's face turned dark.
    "We met at Jack Taliaferro's office," Conway said with no trace of hesitation. "My people provide security for his market."
    "Ah. Of course." Allan beckoned the big man into their living room and bade him be seated. Kate remained standing a little way off.
    "Mr. Conway --"
    "Kevin, please."
    "Very well, Kevin. Please call me Allan. Has Kate told you about the specific hazard we're worried about?"
    Conway nodded. "In detail, Allan. There are a few complexities, but I think we can handle the matter. If you'll allow us, that is."
    Allan's eyes moved to Kate. She stood with arms crossed over her breasts, her expression stony.
    "Are you conversant with the legalities, Kevin?"
    Conway nodded. "CWP does need a warrant to enter your premises. More, since you're not related to the Comptons, they'd have to show extraordinary cause to get a judge to grant one."
    "What if they see the boys out in the open, say from a low-flying helicopter?"
    Conway's mouth tightened. "That would probably constitute sufficient cause, by current standards. Do you have a reason to think that might happen?"
    "I can't keep them indoors all the time, can I? And what about when school starts? Isn't that pretty soon?"
    A flicker of uncertainty passed over Kate's features.
    Conway nodded. "That would pose a problem, if your legal arrangements aren't concluded by the time school resumes...and if you allow them to return to school."
    "If?"
    "There are alternatives, Allan," Kate said.
    Allan started to expostulate, halted himself.
    "What near term measures do you have in mind, Kevin?"
    Conway looked at Kate with an expression of abashed amusement.
    "They were actually your ideas, Kate."
    She nodded.
    Allan rose and faced his wife squarely. "Well?"
    She told him.

    "The window of vulnerability closes," Conway said as he rose, "when the next-of-kin sign off on everything. As an attorney admitted to the New York bar, Allan makes a suitable guardian ad litem until then. The one and only thing you must not do is display any personal interest, pecuniary or otherwise, in the disposal of the Compton farm."
    Allan smiled. "Easy enough. We have none."
    Conway nodded. "And the boys?"
    "Leave that to me."
    "Then I'll have two men here in plainclothes tomorrow morning at eight." Conway grinned. "Don't expect any farm work out of them. It's not their skill set."
    Allan chuckled. "Not a problem."
    Conway shook hands with Kate and Allan in turn. Kate showed him out, bade him good night, and closed and locked the door behind him. As she returned to the living room, her shoulders slumped in undisguised fatigue.
    Allan could see how much a successful conclusion to the affair would mean to his wife. What he struggled with was why. It seemed unreasonable that Kate should be so protective of two teenagers about whom, before that evening, she'd known little beyond their names.
    She says it must be. I mustn't doubt her. She didn't doubt me when our positions were reversed.
    She might be a better Christian than I am. God knows, she's a better neighbor. But how are we going to deal with two teenage boys and all the work of the farm at the same time?
    He sat next to her and laid an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his embrace.
    "Your job starts tomorrow," she said.
    "Hm?"
    "You have to track down the next-of-kin. At this point, we only know them by their relations to the boys. And once that part is out of the way, you have to establish a homeschooling claim with the district."
    He reeled, tried not to show it. "We're going to educate them ourselves?"
    "Why not? Abe Lincoln got by with less. Who's better qualified than a lawyer and a farm wife?"
    "How do we do that before the rest of the arrangements are in place?"
    Her eyes flashed. "You want your part to be easy? Sorry, Allan. It's going to be tough all around." She rose and faced him. "I'm going to have to deal with CWP creeps and sheriff's deputies. With mercenaries for security. Want to change places?"
    "Kate..."
    "Time for bed, Allan."

    Elias Compton bowed his head over his folded hands. Allan and the teens followed suit.
    "Lord," he said, "may his soul rest forever at peace in Your arms, and may we who loved him, however imperfectly; always remember him in the fullness of his strength. In Christ Our Lord, amen." He raised his head and straightened up. "What's next?"
    Allan sat forward on the battered old sofa. "Well, sir, we have a couple of matters to get squared away. The first is Art's farm. By law, since he died intestate, that would pass to the boys as his next-of-kin, but since they're underage, they could hold title only under the supervision of a guardian of legal stature. Until certain...matters in progress are resolved, I'm that guardian. But I have to tell you, the boys are in some legal danger themselves, so it might be best to arrange an immediate property transfer to your name. I've brought the necessary forms with me." He glanced at Nat and Cal. "Should you sell the farm before they come of age, it would be proper to share the proceeds with them."
    Compton nodded.
    "The greater problem," Allan said, "is the boys' permanent residence and guardianship until they come of age. New York law allows you to assume guardianship as their godfather and Art's nearest blood kin. They would then come to reside with you, and you would become responsible for their upbringing and education." He watched Compton's face closely, caught the microscopic flinch, and braced himself. "But it also allows you two other options."
    "Go on."
    "The first, which I don't recommend, is that you abrogate your custodianship and turn the boys over to the state's Child Welfare and Protection service. CWP would assume immediate custody, place the boys in state facilities, and begin the hunt for families to foster them. Whether their placements were immediate or delayed, quite likely they'd be separated and kept that way until Cal has turned eighteen. That's a rough row to hoe for any child, sir. For boys as well bred and behaved as these two, it would be a tragedy of the first water. The second, which I exhort you to consider strongly, is a private fostering arrangement with a family you trust to see to their well-being until they've reached their legal majorities."
    Compton sat silent for a long moment. His eyes never left Allan's face.
    "I expect you have a family picked out for this burden, Mr. Fitzgerald."
    Allan swallowed. "I do, sir. My own. My wife Katherine and I operate a small farm of our own. It's right across route 231 from your late cousin's spread. We would be honored to have Nat and Cal come to live with us, and we would accept complete responsibility, legal, financial, and moral, for their care."
    Compton rose, ran his fingers through his shock of gray-blond hair, and went to the west-facing window to stare at the fields and the trees beyond. The afternoon was well worn, but the sun was far from setting. Allan wondered whether he had any chance of making it back to Kate before midnight.
    How is she doing with her end of things? Conway seemed capable enough, but I hate it that so much is happening with us so far apart.
    "Mr. Fitzgerald," Compton said, "are you a religious man?"
    "I am. Catholic."
    "And your wife?"
    "The same."
    It appeared to satisfy Compton. "I have to do something first," he said.
    "Sir?"
    "You seem decent enough, for a lawyer," Compton said, "but this is something that deserves a spot of reflection." He looked at the teens. "Mind if I take these two off by ourselves for an hour or so? You're welcome to my hospitality meanwhile."
    Allan rose. "Nat, Cal, please accompany your uncle. I promise I'll be here when you get back." He smiled. "Really."
    The teens rose. "Yes, sir," Nat said.
    Compton packed Nat and Cal into his Buick and rattled off to the west, with the sun dipping ever lower as Allan watched.

    It was more than three hours later that the old Buick pulled back into the driveway. Throughout the interval, Allan had rigidly refrained from thinking about what was transpiring. His cell phone refused to connect him to Kate. When he heard the rumble of the ancient six-cylinder engine, he opened the bungalow's front door and stood there watching as it came to a stop and its passengers emerged. Nat and Cal stood by the car waiting for one of the adults to issue directions.
    Elias Compton rose to the occasion. "Boys," he said, "go on in and freshen up. There's apple juice in the fridge. Glasses are in the cupboard over the sink. Mr. Fitzgerald, might I have a word with you out here?"
    Allan nodded. "Certainly, sir." He stepped down onto the packed-clay walk and moved aside to let the teens past.
    He and Compton waited silently for the boys to shut the door behind them.
    "They're nearly men," Compton said.
    "They are, sir."
    "Call me Elias, Mr. Fitzgerald. I'm not one for formality."
    "Then I'm Allan, if that's agreeable."
    "It is." Compton's gaze moved to the expanse of fallow field to the east. "You're a Navy man, aren't you?"
    "Hm? I mean, yes, I was. For four years. How'd you know?"
    "The look." Compton grinned. "That thousand-yard stare. A sailor never quite loses the look, no matter the years. Which vessel?"
    "The Roosevelt."
    "A worthy boat," Compton said. "Mine was the Kennedy. Spent a couple of seasons in Hell painting, cleaning cannon, and patrolling the eastern Mediterranean. You?"
    "Southeastern Pacific. China Sea duty, mostly."
    "Protecting the Chinese from the Chinese, eh? God's little joke on America." Compton cocked an eyebrow at him. "The boys think well of you. They're practically in love with your wife."
    Allan grinned. "Can't fault their taste in women."
    "Got no problem with that?"
    "None. Kate can handle them. She'd better be able to. She's the reason for all this."
    "Her idea, eh?"
    "Yep."
    Compton nodded. "Women are like that. Just as long as you're okay with it." He waved at his house. "I can't keep 'em. I've got no room, and I live on about five bucks a week. We'd drive one another crazy before Hallowe'en."
    "I understand. So what's it to be?"
    "The way you said." Compton faced him squarely, arms crossed over his chest. "I'll take Art's spread and hold it until they're of age. Any liens on it?"
    "None."
    "What about property taxes?"
    "As long as it lies unused, minimal. Anyway, I'll be happy to cover them until you sell it or the boys are grown. If you sell it, I'll expect to be paid back."
    Compton's eyebrows rose. "Got the papers for a fostering agreement with you?"
    "I do. Are you sure you want to do it this fast, Elias?"
    "Fast? You got here four hours ago."
    Allan chuckled. "That's all you need to be sure of me?"
    "Allan," Compton said, "what do you think we were off doing? I took us to church. I kept us on our knees for over an hour. Then I took the boys to town and put burgers and malteds in front of them. I let them chow down, and then I grilled them." He shook his head wonderingly. "I can't quite grasp it, but I can't doubt it either. What you want is what they want. To make a family with you."
    Allan felt himself relax all over. The tension he'd endured had been so pervasive that he nearly collapsed as it dissipated.
    "Shall we make it official," he said, "so I can get us back to my wife?"
    "We shall," Compton said. "You hungry at all?"
    "I can wait. And by the way, Elias," Allan said, "you're welcome at our place whenever you choose to visit, and for however long you choose to stay."
    Elias Compton's expression didn't change in any way a photographer would have been able to capture. But Allan could swear that the weathered features had begun to glow.
    "You should be careful about extending open-ended invitations like that, Allan."
    "I am, Elias," Allan said. "Always."
    He put out his hand, and Compton took it.

    As Allan opened the door to his home, Kate flew to him and wrapped her arms around him. The boys edged carefully past them and went at once to their rooms.
    "It's done," he said.
    "Everything?"
    Allan nodded. "Elias Compton now has formal title to Art's place, and we are officially Nat and Cal's foster family. So what did the day bring over here?"
    She giggled against his chest. "CWP sent this absolute harpy. She came here -- no warrant -- and demanded that I let her search the place for the boys. Practically stuck her hand down my pants. Had a sheriff's deputy with her, too. Conway's men kept them at bay. The bitch screamed at me that she'd be back with a warrant in an hour. So Conway's men made sure that wouldn't happen."
    "How?"
    "A cell phone jammer."
    "Huh? Aren't those illegal?"
    She leaned back and leered at him. "I won't tell if you won't."
    "Well, what then?"
    "They got in the deputy's cruiser and tried to drive off where there's better reception."
    "Tried?"
    She nodded. "It's pretty hard to do with two shredded tires. Conway's boys are very good shots. As a courtesy, I used our land line to call a tow truck for them. I might have told the operator not to hurry. I'm not sure I recall. Anyway, by the time they were on the road again, it was well past five."
    Allan convulsed in laughter. "Game, set, and match. How I wish I'd been here to see it!"
    "Just let's try not to need the services of the sheriff's department for a couple of years, okay?"
    "That shouldn't be too hard." He caressed her back and shoulders. "Well, with the foster agreement in place, we can send Nat and Cal back to school as always."
    She shook her head. "Let's not."
    "You really want to homeschool them?"
    "Why not? They'll get a better education that way, and besides, it would give us more time to make a family out of us."
    "And," he said, looking levelly into her eyes, "it would give us two more pairs of hands to work the farm, wouldn't it?"
    "Well, yeah. Do you have a problem with that?"
    "Not as long as they don't."
    "I don't think they will," Kate said. "They've asked me several times if they could work with us."
    "They have?"
    She nodded. "This isn't just where they want to be, Allan. It's also what they want to do."
    "But is it what you want to do?"
    "Well, not right this moment."
    "Hm?"
    "We didn't make love last night, Allan."
    "Oh! How right you are. So?"
    "Isn't that what husbands and wives do? To make a family, I mean?"
    "Ha! Well, yes, but usually that comes before the babies arrive."
    She ran a hand down his torso and caressed his member through his pants. He became erect at once.
    "They're pretty big babies," she said. "I'd say we have some catching up to do."
    "Shall we get to it, then?"
    "Let's do that."
    
    

Farm Girl Part Two: Soil Tests

By The Curmudgeon Emeritus

    Allan trotted along beside the tractor as Kate steered it toward the barn. He pulled the sliding door open and stood aside as she brought the tractor smoothly to rest in its accustomed place. She killed the engine, jumped down from the driver's seat, and writhed to stretch the kinks out of her lower back.
    "We got a lot done," he said as he reached for her hand.
    She smiled tiredly, slid the barn door closed, and took his hand. They headed up the slight incline toward the house.
    "Kate?"
    "Hm?"
    "Something wrong?"
    She looked up at him in some surprise. "No, nothing. Why?"
    "You haven't been very talkative lately."
    That elicited a crooked grin. "Farm girl, remember?"
    So along with not talking during sex, they don't talk the rest of the time either?
    He nodded and escorted her to their back door. Once inside, she silently stepped out of her overalls, tossed them at the rough-clothing hamper in the corner, and headed for the bathroom. Presently he heard the pulse of the shower.
    Allan frowned, took a seat at their kitchen table, and propped his chin on his folded hands.
    Something had to be amiss. Kate's taciturnity had gone well beyond her norm. She'd been driving herself harder than ever, rising earlier, stopping later, and demanding ever greater prodigies of effort from herself. In bed she'd gone from enthusiastic to frenzied, straining to bring him to orgasm twice or thrice every night. Yet she hardly had a word to say about the farm, their labors, their love life, or anything else.
    It's only been a year. Maybe I don't yet know her all that well.
    He tried not to worry.
    Maybe the party will lift her spirits.
    He went to their bedroom and rummaged through the closet for an appropriate suit. Though he'd saved several from his lawyering days, they failed to fit him as they once did. Farm labor had developed his chest, arms, and thighs more radically than they could accommodate. He wasn't unhappy about it -- he'd never felt better in his life -- but it meant more casual attire for the Taliaferros' party than he was used to wearing to such occasions. He shrugged and settled on a navy polo shirt and a new pair of tan slacks.
    He cleared a spot on their bed, lay back, and allowed his thoughts to ramble. The previous year's rhubarb and scallions had sold extremely well. With his help, Kate had gotten six acres of each under cultivation, plus six of asparagus from a gourmet line. Present trends continuing, the coming crop would be as bountiful, and would sell out as quickly and profitably, as had the previous one. They had good reason to be proud of their work.
    Kate entered wrapped in a towel, spied him reclining on their bed with his suits scattered around him, and grinned.
    "They don't fit any more, do they?"
    He chuckled. "How did you guess?"
    "It's my doing, Allan. I made you into a farm boy. A farm boy never has a suit that fits. It's sort of a tradition."
    She opened her fingers and let her towel fall to the floor. He sat up, the better to admire her tawny-blonde beauty, at once muscular and feminine.
    "But I've got another farm saying in mind at the moment," she said. "The biggest one of all. The work's not done until the crop is in."
    His eyebrows rose. "Meaning what?"
    She undulated toward him. "Meaning get out of those clothes."

    "Allan?"
    "Hm?" He nuzzled her breast.
    "Why haven't I conceived?"
    The question brought him to full alert.
    Is that what's been on her mind?
    "I don't know, Kate. Sometimes it takes a while. It doesn't necessarily mean there's something wrong with us."
    "Wrong with me, you mean."
    The catch in her voice was plain. He propped himself on an elbow and peered at her through the early evening gloom.
    "I meant what I said. There's such a thing as couple infertility. It might be the commonest kind." He dipped his head to brush his lips lightly across hers. "There's stress-induced infertility, too. You might just be working too hard. Pushing yourself beyond your proper limits. The body sometimes shuts down, uh, nonessential functions to compensate."
    Her expression tightened. "I thought I knew my limits. I've worked this hard before. This many hours, this kind of load, and so on."
    "But you weren't trying to get pregnant back then, were you?"
    "Of course not!"
    "Easy, Kate. We could go see Dr. Childress, if you want to get tested. He could do a sperm count on me, too, make sure I'm not, uh, shooting blanks."
    She gave him a severe look. "What kind of farm boy are you? You mean to waste perfectly good seeds on a test tube?"
    It was too much. He broke into helpless laughter, and she joined him. Presently she rolled him onto his back, straddled him, and slid down the bed until his penis was directly under her face.
    "Maybe we haven't scattered quite...enough...seeds yet." She dipped her head and ran her tongue along the underside of his penis, from scrotum to head. It brought him instantly back to full erection. A jolt of exquisite pleasure shot through the length of his body, compelling a gasp.
    "Mmm!" She dipped for a second lick and smacked her lips. "And all this time I thought I preferred sweet snacks."
    On her third descent she took him fully into her mouth.

    "She's radiant," Jack Taliaferro said.
    Allan nodded. "I wish we had more occasions to doll her up for."
    Kate stood at the far end of the Taliaferros' great room, a glass of white wine in her hand. She held court among a group of older wives, all of whom were doing their best to pump her for her antecedents without seeming to pry overtly. Her relaxed, confident poise and amused smile were more of a comment on their efforts than anything she might have said.
    It had taken all of Allan's persuasive powers to get her into the black satin cocktail dress and high-heeled pumps she wore. Yet once she'd donned them and glimpsed herself in their bedroom mirror, her eyes had filled with wonder and tears. When he produced the diamond necklace he'd purchased for their anniversary and fastened it around her neck, she'd plastered herself against him, sobbing from sheer joy.
    "We can fix that," Taliaferro said. "How did you do it?"
    "Hm?"
    "Bag her." The produce magnate's wry grin expressed an envious incredulity. "She's less than half your age and a damn sight better looking."
    Allan chuckled. "Wasn't my idea, Jack," he said. "I was sitting on my porch, minding my own business, and suddenly there she was."
    "Not a client of yours?"
    "Huh? I don't have any clients."
    Taliaferro's eyebrows rose. "I took you for a professional of some sort. Doctor or lawyer. What do you do to pay for groceries?"
    "Well," Allan said, "I used to be a lawyer. I gave it up when I moved out here."
    That got him Taliaferro's full attention. "What sort?"
    "General commercial law," Allan said. He sipped at his highball. "Occasionally a little civil practice."
    "Did you hear about Ted Guillory's death?"
    Allan shook his head.
    "He handled most of Onteora's commercial clients," Taliaferro said. "Very highly regarded, he'll be greatly missed. There's a vacuum there now. Are you still admitted to the New York bar?"
    Allan nodded. "I've kept in good standing."
    Taliaferro's eyes twinkled. "If your touch is as good with the law as it is with beautiful young women, it might be time for you to think about going back into the trenches. I could use you myself."
    Allan started to demur, stopped himself, and pondered.
    Do I miss it at all?
    Would Kate mind?
    Kate chose that moment to excuse herself from her companions and saunter across the room to him. She slipped an arm around his waist as she smiled up at Jack Taliaferro.
    "Mr. Taliaferro --"
    "Jack, please." The produce magnate's smile threatened to amputate his lower jaw.
    "Thank you for having us, Jack. It's a delightful party."
    "As it happens," Taliaferro said, "it's for you."
    "Hm?"
    "Everyone I know has been dying to meet you two." Taliaferro waved inclusively at the gathering. Nearly fifty people strolled the generous spaces of his great room and the huge deck beyond it. All of them were persons of substance or the spouses thereof. "Nan Ormandy was about to bug your house out of sheer curiosity."
    Kate squinted in cordial bemusement. "What's so intriguing about us?" She squeezed Allan, and he dimpled. "We're just a farm couple trying to scratch a living out of the soil."
    Taliaferro laughed. "If you'd wanted a life of anonymity, you shouldn't have started going to the seven-thirty Mass. A couple of parishioners are still grumbling about it."
    "Hm? Why?"
    "Because you took --" Taliaferro made hooks with his forefingers -- "their pew!"
    Kate laughed and rested her head against Allan's shoulder. "We'll have to look them up and offer apologies."
    "Seriously, though," Taliaferro said, "welcome to what passes for society around here. I hope you won't turn back into strangers after this. Especially this big guy," he said, indicating Allan. "I've got plans for him."
    A little of the pleasure seeped out of Kate's expression. She canted to look up into her husband's eyes. Allan felt his face grow red.
    "Oh."

    Kate laid her face against Allan's chest. "Do I get to hear about Jack's plans now?"
    Allan smiled and pulled her closer. "He thinks he can talk me into going back to the practice of law."
    "Well? Can he?"
    He snorted. "Get serious. Why should I? I don't miss it at all. I have everything I want right here."
    "You do?"
    The question surprised him.
    Does she doubt me?
    "Let's see," he said. "I get to spend my whole day every day with you. I'm learning new things every day. I feel better than I have since I was twenty. We're making a name for your produce. And we're making money. Should I trade all that for a fluorescent-lit office, a swivel chair, and a desk full of paperwork? Hm, tough call."
    She giggled against his chest. "You sure know the way to a woman's heart."
    "Yup. Right through here." He reached down and fondled her vulva.
    "Hey!" She giggled again. "Not unless you mean business, sport."
    "Which I do." He rolled her onto her back and entered her.
    "Aaah!" Her hands went to his buttocks and pulled him deeply into her.
    As they moved against one another, he whispered, "So, Mrs. Fitzgerald, tell me about this tort you'd like me to handle."
    "I might have misled you, Counselor," she gasped, "I didn't mean tort."
    "Hm?" He raised himself onto his elbows and peered into her flushed face. "What did you mean, then?"
    "I meant tart."
    "Oh? What tart?"
    "Me," she whispered. She trailed a fingertip down his spine, slipped it delicately into his anus, and stroked his prostate. He gasped and pressed deep into her as he exploded, triggering her own climax. As ever since their first lovemaking, the force and duration of his orgasm consumed him completely.
    "Fill me, my king," she said as his spasms subsided. "Fill your queen with your seed. Let it find fertile ground. Let my breasts swell, and my belly grow great, that I might bring forth an heir to our kingdom."
    He raised himself again and peered wonderingly into her eyes. "Where did that come from?"
    "Hey, you wanted me to be more talkative, didn't you?" She took his face between her hands. "Are you pleased with your lady wife, Your Majesty?"
    "Before you, I was nothing," he said. "I was barely alive. It's you who've made me a king." He kissed her tenderly. "Only you."

    "Allan?" Kate called from the front door. "There's someone here to see you."
    What's with the catch in her voice?
    He turned off the television, rose from the sofa, and ambled toward the foyer. He wasn't minded to spend much time on a drop-in visitor. The day had gone well, but it had been strenuous, and he'd been looking forward to bed.
    He found Kate in the company of a beautiful woman he didn't recognize. She was dark of hair and eyes yet fair of skin, looked to be in her mid-thirties, and was dressed to the nines in a an elegantly tailored navy blue skirt suit, sheer hose, and high-heeled pumps. A single strand of pearls graced her throat.
    Kate's eyes were full of questions.
    "Yes, Ma'am?"
    The strange woman extended a hand. "Mr. Fitzgerald?"
    He took it and shook it gently. "The same. And you are...?"
    "Schuyler Clarke." She smiled formally. "Forgive me, please, for the intrusion. I've stopped by several times during daylight hours, but no one ever answered the door."
    He chuckled. "No surprise there. Kate and I are farmers. We're out in the fields just about whenever there's light."
    Clarke's eyebrows knitted in surprise. "Jack Taliaferro said you were a lawyer."
    It was Allan's turn to be surprised. "I was, once. I haven't practiced in eight years now." He gestured toward the living room. "Would you like to sit?"
    Clarke nodded and followed him, with Kate bringing up the rear. When they'd all taken seats, Allan hunched forward, elbows on knees, and said, "Do you have a legal problem?"
    Clarke smiled faintly. "I suppose you could say that. I was Theodore Guillory's paralegal."
    "Oh." Allan groped for words. "I only heard of his passing a few days ago. My condolences."
    "Thank you. Unfortunately, condolences won't do much for the clients he's left behind."
    "Oh! Unfinished business?"
    "Quite a bit of it," Clarke said. "I have no one to refer them to. Jack suggested that you might be willing to help me to meet their various needs." Her eyes flicked briefly to Kate, seated close by Allan's side. "He didn't mention that you were so fully engaged."
    Allan chuckled. "Jack has a way of omitting details he considers trivial."
    "Hm. I'd imagine, then, that you're unavailable for legal work?"
    Allan started to speak, stopped himself.
    "How many clients, Miss Clarke?"
    "Six," she said. "All straightforward commercial work. No court appearances, and no conflicts in prospect. I could do the bulk of it myself, but that would be illegal unless --"
    "Unless you had a member of the New York Bar to sign off on it, yes." He sat back and pondered briefly. Kate snugged herself more closely against him.
    "I'd be willing to undertake it," he said after an interval, "on condition that you handle all the routine matters, and that everyone understands that I'd be unavailable for any follow-ups or further work. I'm not really interested in resuming the practice of law." He smiled and looped an arm around Kate. "My new occupation suits me much better."
    Schuyler Clarke gave him the most thorough going-over he'd ever experienced. Her eyes roamed his face and body as if she were measuring him for a space suit. He could not tell from her expression what evaluation she reached, if any.
    "I suppose I can't reasonably ask more than that," she said. "Would you be willing to use Counselor Guillory's old suite for the meetings? I think it might be preferable to having them come here. For the sake of your privacy, that is."
    Kate stiffened against him. He hugged her gently.
    "Certainly, Miss Clarke. When would I have to present myself there?"
    Clarke consulted a Day-Timer. "Aaron Campbell has an appointment to meet with Ted -- excuse me, with you, tomorrow at eleven. Can you make it, or should I try to reschedule?"
    He glanced at Kate. There was an uneasy glint in her eyes. She nodded.
    "I'll be there," he said.
    Clarke rose and handed him a business card. "Here's the address."

    "Jack's a cagey sort, isn't he?"
    Allan chuckled. "I haven't heard that expression in years. Yes, he is. He led off by saying he could use my services. That didn't work, so now he's sent Legal Babe."
    Kate stared straight ahead and said nothing. The television droned on, unwatched.
    "Kate?"
    "Hm?"
    "You're not worried about this, are you?"
    She turned to face him. "Lawyers work a lot of hours, don't they?"
    He nodded. "That's part of why I gave it up."
    "I can't manage the farm alone, Allan."
    "What makes you think you'll have to?"
    Her eyes probed his, questioning.
    "Kate, this is likely to cost me a half-dozen meetings and a few hours reviewing legal documents. If it has me away from the farm for three full days all told, I'll be really surprised."
    She nodded and started to turn away. He caught her chin and compelled her to remain facing him.
    "Is that the only thing you're worried about?"
    Unreadable currents passed over her face.
    It's the woman. It has to be.
    "Sweetheart, I'll be working alongside you tomorrow morning till ten. I'll be home by two PM at the latest. I might have to take the same sort of leave a few more times, but I swear to you, on my wedding vows, that I will not allow this, or Jack Taliaferro, or Schuyler Clarke to drag me back to the practice of law. I left it for good reasons, and I have even better ones to be here with you. Believe me? Please?"
    "So why are you doing it at all?" she said.
    "It's an ethical obligation." He stroked her cheek as he cast about for the right words. "Ted Guillory's passing left a few people with unfinished work. They've paid for it, they deserve to have it completed, and it seems I'm the only guy around who can see to that. If they'd been my clients, and my death had left them high and dry, I'd certainly want someone else to step in and finish what I'd started. So I have to do this." He swallowed. "To be a good Christian, if for no other reason."
    She nodded and fixed a thousand-yard stare on the television.
    It's not the farm, and it's not the law. It's the woman. But she'll never say so.
    He rose. "I have to make a quick trip into town. I'll be back in an hour or so, okay?"
    She nodded without looking at him, and he left.

    Evenings To Remember was, thankfully, still open. Allan had never entered it before. He knew of it only from a conversation overheard as he left church. But if there was any establishment in Onteora that might sell what he sought, that would be the one.
    He pushed open the door tentatively, uncertain what he might see. The interior of the shop was pleasantly lit, and the arrays of goods were approximately what he expected to find there: erotic lingerie and shoes, vibrators, bondage devices, and assorted other bedroom playthings. Though there was no concealing the nature of the place, nevertheless he found it more tasteful than he'd expected. He cast a quick glance over the racks without finding the specific item he needed.
    A beautiful young woman in leather garments and high heels came out from behind the counter and ambled toward him, smiling pleasantly.
    "Good evening and welcome to Evenings To Remember." She held out a hand. "I'm Martine. May I help you with something?"
    He took her hand and shook it gently. "Hello. I've never been here before, and I'm not sure you carry what I need."
    "Well," she said, eyes twinkling, "that depends on your definition of 'need.'" She waved at a card table in the corner, set with a china tea service and a plate of small white cakes. "Care to chat over a cup of tea?"
    He shrugged. "Sure, why not?"
    She pulled him gently toward the little table and seated him, took a seat for herself, and poured each of them a cup of tea. He sniffed it and smiled in appreciation.
    "Earl Grey?"
    She nodded. "My favorite. It goes really well with these cakes. Try one."
    He took a cake from the plate and nibbled off a corner. An exquisite blend of sweetness and spice, like a Christmas confection but with a subtle undertone of sensuality, spread through his palate. "Mmm! Your recipe?"
    "No, taught to me by a friend."
    He smiled. "Hold onto that friend." He finished the little cake with two more quick bites. "These are delightful."
    "Thank you. Now," she said, reaching across the table to take his hand again, "what exactly is it that you need, and why would you think I might not carry it?"
    Her eyes went wide as he told her.

    Allan picked up his sport jacket, paused to ponder whether he should buff his shoes a second time, and dismissed the thought as he glanced out the bedroom window. Kate was still laboring over the rhubarb, her back to the house. She'd said hardly ten words since they'd risen that morning.
    She'll come around. She has to. Oops, almost forgot.
    He went to Kate's dresser, picked up her key ring, and carefully slipped two small keys onto it.
    For the love of God, don't lose these, Kate.
    Twenty minutes later he knocked at the door of the late Theodore Guillory's office suite. A moment later, Schuyler Clarke, as smoothly turned out as the previous evening, let him in.
    "Good morning, Counselor."
    "Good morning, Miss Clarke."
    She smiled. "Please, call me Schuyler. Or Sky, if you prefer." She led him to the inner office where Guillory had presumably held private meetings. The oaken desk, barrister's bookcases, guest chairs, and small conference table were straight out of a legal supplies catalogue.
    He chuckled. "Okay. Is Mr. Campbell on his way?"
    She nodded, bade him be seated, and sat in one of the guest chairs. He lowered himself gingerly into the high-backed leather swivel chair. A folder labeled Campbell, A. lay on the desk before him.
    "Been a while since I last sat in one of these."
    Her gaze was tinged with subtle amusement. "Like coming home, isn't it?"
    "No, not really." He shifted back and forth, seeking a comfortable perch. "Actually, I don't, ah, sit much these days. Farm work never ends, you know."
    "Like legal work, then."
    Yes and no. "Well, the work we're here to do will see its end soon enough." He opened the folder and bent to study the contents, watching her covertly as he did so. He could not miss the current of displeasure that crossed her features.
    A few minutes later he looked up and smiled. "This will go easily enough. Have you finished the paperwork?"
    She nodded and indicated a folder in his in-box.
    Not my in-box. Guillory's in-box. Never my in-box. Keep that straight, moron.
    A moment's perusal of the forms she'd prepared was all he needed. "We're ready to proceed."
    "Very good," she said. A knock sounded against the door of the suite, and she rose to answer it.
    Allan rose as Clarke escorted Aaron Campbell into the inner office.
    Let's make this march.
    "Mr. Campbell," he said as they shook hands. "I'm Allan Fitzgerald. I think we have your compliance reports completed. Shall we review them and get back to our regular lives?"
    Schuyler Clarke scowled.

    Clarke watched Allan's face as the door closed behind Aaron Campbell. He smiled and carefully resumed his seat at Guillory's desk.
    "Why didn't you charge him?"
    "I'm not his lawyer, Schuyler. I'm just a pinch hitter. When you take a client's money for a service, a bond forms. Expectations get set. I don't want those expectations. I'm only doing this so you can close Ted Guillory's accounts."
    "You moved through it as if you had a train to catch."
    He smiled. "I do. Kate's waiting for me at the farm. There's too much work for one person. She's used to having my help."
    "No time to have lunch with your paralegal?"
    She'd pulled the guest chair up to the edge of the desk. One arm was draped casually across its surface, with the hand invitingly palm up. Beckoning.
    "Sorry, no. When's the next appointment?"
    She recoiled, plucked her Day-Timer from her handbag, and flipped through it. "Cecily Mattison, Thursday at ten AM."
    "Paperwork all finished?"
    She nodded, and he rose.
    "Till Thursday, then."
    He strode steadily to the exit, feeling the pressure of her gaze the whole way.

Go to Farm Girl Part Three: Unexpected Bounties

Friday, April 16, 2010

Farm Girl

By Francis W. Porretto

Part One: First Plantings

    Allan Fitzgerald's front yard was unusually shallow for a parcel that had once been a working farm. A mere sixty feet separated his front porch from the curb of NY 231. Behind his humble little ranch, his spread extended a quarter mile further eastward, and was almost as wide as it was deep. The previous owner had once operated a moderately successful corn farm there, as had the owner before him, but the viability of so small-scale a farm had come to an end when the massive machines of Lyons-Davis Agricorp rolled into Onteora County.
    That didn't matter to Allan. He'd never been a farmer. The field stood idle. In the barn beside the ranch, the tractor and harvester gathered cobwebs. The old Bellamy farm was merely his retirement home, where he hid more or less comfortably from the world and its reminders of his failures.
    Allan didn't bother much about the field or the barn. When the mood struck him to be outside, he invariably went to sit on the front porch. Traffic on NY 231 was too sparse to annoy him, and the Compton farm across the way was as idle as his own.
    That morning, he'd been sitting on his porch for about a hour, musing indifferently over a mediocre fantasy novel, when the girl ambled into view.
    Foot traffic on NY 231 was unusual in the extreme. It was a truck route, a bypass for the city of Onteora. It had no sidewalks, and was flanked by no consumer-oriented stores or places of employment. It connected to US 90, forty miles to the west, but those who traveled it eastward were seldom Onteora bound.
    At a distance the girl was ordinary-looking: medium height, a broad-shouldered but bosomy build, shoulder-length blonde hair. She appeared to be in her early twenties. She wore a heavy wool sweater, blue jeans, and work boots. A shabby satchel of modest size dangled from her right hand. Her walk was strong but unhurried. A surge of curiosity impelled Allan to lean forward, as he attempted to make out her face.
    She noticed, stopped, and returned his gaze. Embarrassed without a clear reason, Allan smiled formally and forced his eyes back to his novel.
    "Any good?"
    The words startled him half out of his chair. She'd approached so quietly that he hadn't noticed her arrival on his porch, practically in his lap. She backed away a step as he resettled himself.
    "Not particularly. Just a way to pass the time. What can I do for you?"
    "I'm looking for work." She waved at the barn and the field beyond. "Your first planting is late. Need a hand with it? I'm good with machines."
    He grinned ruefully. "You can't imagine how late. There hasn't been a planting here in seven years. This isn't a working farm any more. It's just my retirement spread."
    The girl's face fell. She nodded, hefted her satchel, and made to leave.
    "Just a moment."
    She turned and looked at him questioningly.
    She's not dirty or unkempt, but...
    "How long have you been walking?"
    She shrugged. "Couple days. A trucker dropped me off at the end of 90."
    "Got a place to stay?"
    She shook her head.
    "Had any breakfast?"
    "Granola bar." She indicated her satchel. "They're easy to tote around."
    "Uh, yeah." He rose. "Look, I was about to fix some lunch. If you're not in a big hurry to get on down the road, you're welcome to join me."
    She stared at him in silence for several seconds.
    "Okay, thanks." She stuck out a hand. He took it, her calluses rough against his fingers. "I'm Kate."
    "Allan," he said. "Let's get fed."

    Kate attacked her ham sandwich with evident appetite. Allan smiled to himself, fetched bottled soda, potato salad, and a plastic container of grapes from the fridge, and loaded them onto the kitchen table.
    As he laid out forks, napkins, and plastic cups, he said "Work's pretty sparse these days."
    She nodded. "Not just here."
    "You're not a New Yorker, are you?"
    "Jayhawk." She snapped off another bite of sandwich, chewed and swallowed quickly. "The big outfits have taken over back there. They don't have much use for local hands. They bring in their own crews. Mexicans, mostly."
    "It's the same here."
    She nodded and shoveled up a monstrous bite of potato salad. He seated himself across from her, poured soda for them both, and steepled his hands before him.
    "So how long have you been on the road?"
    She swallowed, laid down her fork, and looked at him as if she were trying to gauge the sincerity of his interest.
    "Been a few weeks."
    "No takers for an experienced hand in all that time?"
    Her look of disgust was eloquent.
    "So what do you think of New York so far?"
    She scowled. "Not much. You don't use what you've got. God gave us the land to grow something. To give life." She took up her cup of soda and emptied it in a single long draught. "You folks don't seem to realize that. Unless your neighbors are different from...what I've seen so far."
    "Religious?"
    "Catholic."
    "Me too." He hesitated. "Can I have a shot at changing your opinion of us?"
    Her weighing, measuring stare returned at full force.
    "What do you have in mind?"
    He rose. "Come with me."

    Kate ran a hand caressingly along the tractor's steel flank.
    "This is a forty-seven Springfield. They don't make 'em like this any more. All plastic and sheet metal nowadays."
    Allan nodded. "Think you can get it running?"
    She chuckled. "Oh, I'll get her running, all right. She's a classic. Pure power, just waiting for the starting gun. When I'm finished with her, she'll be able to pull your house off its foundation." Her face clouded; she halted and swiveled to face him. "For what?"
    "You want to grow things?"
    "Yeah, but --"
    "Do it here."
    She gaped at him.
    "I don't use the land. Why shouldn't you?" He waved at the array of machines and tools, idle since he'd taken possession. "Stay here and work it. You're welcome to do what you like with it. And keep the proceeds, of course."
    She gazed doubtfully at the tractor, plainly uncertain what she'd really been invited to do.
    "Stay where?"
    "I have a spare bedroom."
    Her eyes rose to his, challenging. "Is there lock on the door?"
    "There is. You won't be disturbed, I promise."
    "Lend me a few bucks for seed and fuel and stuff?"
    He nodded. "Not a problem."
    "Corn?"
    "Whatever you want."
    She pondered in silence for a long moment.
    "Okay."
    

    Allan was overwhelmed by the fury of Kate's attack on his offer. She rose at five the following morning, was showered and dressed by five-twenty, and out in the barn immediately thereafter without even a cup of coffee. The constant clanking, scraping of tools against parts, and occasional heartfelt profanity kept him aware of her labors throughout the morning. It took all his resolve to keep him inside so she could work in privacy. He peered out the kitchen window at the open barn doors more often than he'd care to admit.
    Just before noon, there came a brief, rapid whirring, followed by the roaring of a powerful engine awakening from slumber. Moments later, the tractor rolled out of the barn, with Kate grinning triumphantly from the driver's seat, and arrowed up the gentle grade toward his house.
    Allan closed the back door behind him and stood on the landing as Kate halted the old monster a mere yard from his steps and killed the engine. Her smile was impossibly wide.
    "Told you!"
    He nodded. "Indeed you did. Get on in here."
    She frowned, but followed him inside. He gestured her to sit at the kitchen table, then laid a legal pad and a ball-point pen before her.
    "Make a list of what you need."
    "Huh? I was going to --"
    "No doubt you were. But it's a fair drive to the best clump of suppliers, so I want to be sure we don't forget anything." He cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't think you were going to carry a few hundred pounds of seed, fertilizer, and fuel back here, did you?"
    "Well, no. But I was going to hitch Nellie up to the disc harrow and --"
    "Nellie?"
    "The Springfield. That's her name." She grinned. "All these years and you didn't know?"
    He groaned. "Okay, so I'm insufficiently inquisitive about my machines' monikers."
    "Hey! Shorter words, please. I'm only a farm girl."
    He fixed her with a no-nonsense stare.
    "You're a farm woman."
    She opened her mouth, closed it, and nodded. "Okay, whatever."
    "So make that list. I'll fix us some lunch."
    "Okay."

    For the next three days, Kate didn't let up. She put twelve to fourteen hours into the little farm each day: first tending the machines, then clearing away the debris of earlier years, then tilling the soil and readying it to receive seed. She paused only for meals, and at the end of the day to shower and retire to her room. Yet the grinding effort seemed to agree with her; she never complained, and she looked stronger and more assured with each day's work.
    Allan knew that, without assistance, Kate would have to limit her ambitions. She certainly wouldn't be able to cultivate forty acres' crops with no hands but her own. He kept silent, and waited patiently for her to disclose her plans for the season before her. It was Saturday dinner before she revealed them.
    "Think I'll plant four acres for trade," she said between mouthfuls of beef stew, "and put asparagus on four more. Plenty of money in good asparagus. Won't be worth a damn for at least two years, though."
    "Two years?" A gentle fluttering began in his stomach.
    She nodded. "You have to invest the time if you want stuff that's worth the money. The soil and the asparagus have to get used to one another."
    "So what will this year's cash crops be?" he said.
    "Scallions and rhubarb."
    "Hm?"
    She grinned. "You expected corn? Why bother? The big guys grow enough corn to feed the whole world about five times." She tore a chunk from her dinner roll, sopped up stew gravy with it, thrust it into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. "Small operators have to do specialty crops. I'm really good with rhubarb. You ever had a rhubarb pie?"
    He shook his head.
    "Then you haven't lived. I promise you, nobody near here will be able to touch our rhubarb." She nibbled at the roll. "The hard part will be selling the stuff. Are there any specialty markets around here we could approach?"
    "A few. Feel like taking a drive tomorrow, making inquiries?"
    She was silent for a moment. "Sure. So when's Mass tomorrow?" she said.
    The swerve hauled him up short. "I go to the seven-thirty. The church is on the other side of the city. You're coming with me?"
    She shrugged. "Of course. Why not?"
    "Right."

    They drew more than a few stares in church. The seven-thirty Mass was populated by the most constant of congregations. Nearly all the attendees sat in exactly the same place every week. An unfamiliar face was sure to excite interest, and more than a little gossip. Especially since it was the face of a young woman, sitting by the side of a considerably older man who'd come to Mass alone for seven straight years.
    Father Ray stopped them on the church steps.
    "Do I have a new parishioner?"
    Kate answered before Allan could compose a response. "For this season at least, Father." She held out a hand, and the priest clasped it. "I'm Kate Morrell."
    "Welcome to Onteora parish, dear. I'm Father Raymond Altomare." The priest looked an avalanche of questions at Allan, who did his best to maintain an expression of bland amiability.
    "Father," Kate said before the awkward silence could run too long, "would you know of any markets in the area that might take some specialty produce on consignment?"
    The priest's eyebrows rose. "Are you reviving Bellamy Farm?"
    She nodded. "Maybe you'll be calling it the Morrell Farm this time next year."
    Father Ray smiled. "Wait here." He trotted off toward a knot of other congregants, animatedly exchanging words and gestures on the church's front lawn, and returned moments later with a solid-looking man in a sport jacket and NFL-logo tie.
    "Hello, I'm Jack Taliaferro. I run the local farmers' market." He held out a hand.
    Kate shook the proffered hand but did not release it. Her voice dropped a full octave and became husky. "I'm Kate Morrell. Allan has hired me to turn his spread into a working farm again. We've put in several acres of champion-line scallions and rhubarb. Very high return per unit. But I'm only good at growing things. I'm hopeless at selling them. Do you think you might be able to help?" With that, she produced a smile of such dazzling power that Allan's heart clenched in his chest.
    Taliaferro's mouth dropped open. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. His free hand went to his collar and tugged it away from his throat.
    "I think I might," he croaked. "Give me a moment?" He reclaimed his hand with some reluctance and beckoned to another congregant. "Solly? Come do some business!"
    Presently Kate was chatting, laughing, and backslapping with the two merchants as if they were friends of twenty years' standing. A few minutes later, she shook hands with both again and returned to Allan.
    Allan took Kate gently by the elbow and steered her back toward the car. "How did you do that?"
    The smile she awarded him was 200-proof innocence.
    "Practice."

    They went on that way, day after day and week after week. Kate would rise at five, if not earlier, and set to her labors at once. Allan, half an hour or more behind her despite his best efforts, would cook for them, clean for them, and provide the relaxation of small talk at their meals together. At seven each evening she would put away her tools, shower off the grime of the day, and sit quietly before the television with him until weariness compelled her to sleep.
    Allan kept his distance with difficulty; Kate was too much the dynamo, too filled with life and the fire of enterprise. She electrified him even at her arm's-length remove. She shone with the quality whose loss had impelled him toward an unusually early retirement: the simple joy of dedication, the ecstasy that comes from giving oneself wholeheartedly to work one genuinely wants to do.
    She asked for nothing. He had to drag her away from the farm to drive her into the city for clothes, shoes, and grooming items. Her unwillingness to allow him to spend on her made it difficult verging on impossible, but he would not relent. He used marketing and Mass as the rationales. If she wanted to sell her produce widely, he told her, she'd have to cultivate recognition and trust as well as her crops, by becoming socially acquainted with more of Onteora than just him. Besides, contemporary mores to the side, it was unseemly to attend church in stained jeans and work boots. She acquiesced, at first reluctantly, then with visibly growing pleasure.
    It grew upon him over time that, while he had adjusted to being alone after his divorce from Marie, he had never come to enjoy it. He was not truly a solitary man. He'd been plagued by his sense of unworthiness and his awkwardness with others, and had come to prefer isolation to their torments. Yet in Kate's company he could feel neither.
    One June morning, she woke him by force, shaking him out of a dreamless slumber to the rising light of dawn. He focused with difficulty, blearily wondering what emergency could justify her unprecedented invasion of his bedroom. The clock on his nightstand made it half past five.
    She insisted that he don a robe and follow her, and led him to the fields she'd cultivated. To his sleep-hazed vision, all appeared as it had the day before. She scampered a few paces into the field, squatted, and beckoned to him to join her.
    The scallions had sprouted. Green shoots about an inch long had penetrated to the air and sunlight. He looked from them to her, and found in her smile a joy that words could not capture. Instead of speaking, he raised her to her feet and offered his hand in congratulations.
    She stepped past his hand and wrapped him in an embrace of crushing power. He returned it hesitantly. Twin streams of tears dampened his shoulder.

    That night, Allan teetered on the verge of sleep when a warm intrusion made its presence known against his side. He groped through the darkness and found a cushiony silken mass: a woman's breast.
    "Kate?"
    She chuckled. "Unless you've got someone else coming over." A hand landed on his chest and slid caressingly down to his groin. He became erect at once.
    "What are you doing?"
    "What do you think?"
    "But --"
    "Shut up, Allan." She reached into his boxers' fly and took his organ in her hand. "We farm girls aren't into a lot of conversation at times like this." Seemingly in one motion, she divested him of his shorts and rolled him on top of her.
    She was muscular yet soft and welcoming, a blanket of loving flesh that sought him with an eagerness he'd never encountered even as a teenager. He had to be the one to slow them down, to delay actual coitus and make room for foreplay. As he acquainted himself with her body, kissing, nibbling, and stroking his way along her bounties, she clutched at him repeatedly, as if she were afraid that he might somehow slip away. He reassured her with fingertips, lips, and tongue, using all he remembered of the art of love from his distant days of joy with Marie.
    When she was gasping raggedly beneath him, desperate for the ultimate union, he gently parted her labia, started to slide into her, and hit an unexpected barrier. He pulled back at once.
    "What's wrong?" she breathed.
    "Are you wearing a tampon?"
    "No."
    "Then --"
    "Shut up, Allan!" And she slammed herself onto him with irresistible force.
    They cried out together from the pain of her deflowering, but in the aftermath it was quickly forgotten. She would not allow their bodies to be separated; she barely allowed him enough latitude to move inside her. It was mere seconds to her first shuddering orgasm, a minute or two to her second one. As she approached the third, the tides in Allan's groin swelled toward their peak. No power on Earth could have restrained them. Her fingers dug deeply into his buttocks as he arched and came.
    She screamed deafeningly as his seed flowed into her. She refused to let him withdraw even slightly, pulling him against her so powerfully that his pelvis groaned under the stress. His outpouring of semen seemed to go on forever, a torrent no effort of his could stanch. The force and duration of his orgasm left him exhausted, almost too weak to breathe, but still conscious enough to fret.
    Dear God, I've broken a virgin. I might have impregnated her into the bargain.
    She held him inescapably, her arms and legs woven around him, as they slowly regained their breath and their senses. He remained lodged deep in her body. He did not attempt to breach the embrace.
    "Why?" he breathed at last.
    "I love you," she whispered.
    "But how?"
    "How not?" she replied.
    "Kate --"
    "Time enough in the morning, Allan."
    With a twist of her hips, she rolled him onto his back and settled herself upon him. Arms around one another, still locked tightly together, they slept.

    As usual, she was up before him, but this time he found her in the kitchen, coffee made and mugs steaming at their respective places. She looked up as he entered and smiled.
    It was the radiant smile of the morning before, when she'd shown him the first visible sign of the life she'd nurtured, but it was more. It compounded discovery, triumph, love, and peace into a single visible expression of joy. He could hardly believe he was its object.
    He sat at his place and stretched out his hands. She took them in hers.
    "What now?" he murmured.
    She shrugged. "Breakfast, a quick shower, then I guess I'll weed and water."
    "Come on!"
    She leered. "Got something else in mind?"
    "Kate!"
    "From where I'm sitting, everything's great, Allan. What's got you so wound up?"
    "I might have impregnated you last night!"
    "You think I'm not aware of that? Farm girl, remember? Oh, excuse me, farm woman. I know what semen is for, Allan. I've inseminated cows." She looked off briefly. "Now that's really grotty. The bull semen comes in this turkey baster thing. You have to wear these long lubricated gloves, because one hand goes all the way up the cow's --"
    "Kate!"
    She giggled little-girl naughtily.
    He was unable to speak, barely able to form a coherent thought. She grinned and chafed his hands.
    "God gave women wombs for the same reason He gave us the land: to grow something. To make life. I want your baby inside me. If I didn't catch last night, maybe I'll get lucky tonight. Or tomorrow, or the next night. Think you're up to the job?"
    Her expression turned serious, and she leaned forward. "Or is it that you don't want a baby?"
    "Kate," he faltered, "the only thing I want more than a child of my own is you to love and raise it with. I just can't quite believe it's all coming true. Why?"
    She scowled. "Told you last night. I love you."
    "I guess," he said slowly, "that's the part I still don't get. How am I...how did I earn that?"
    Her smile returned. "By being who you are. By opening your home to me, giving me everything you have, and telling me it's mine to use as I please. By looking after me and treating me like your beloved long before you even knew what I'm good for." Her brow wrinkled. "What I don't get is my good luck. Why hasn't some other woman snapped you up?"
    "At my age?"
    "Seems like you're doing okay to me. You're a classic. You haven't rusted or weathered. You're still state of the art. They don't make 'em like you any more. Like Nellie. How old are you, fifty or so?"
    "Fifty-two. Kate, that's another thing. You're what, twenty-two or twenty-three?"
    "Twenty-three in October." She grinned. "Lots of farm kids are born in October."
    "Uh, yeah. So I've got thirty years on you. Just how long do you think I'm going to last? You could be alone again before you hit fifty."
    She peered at him in disbelief. "I'm supposed to toss away the man I love because I can't have the whole of his adult life for my own? Okay, so I got here late. My bad. But what you have left is priceless, and I want to share it with you, and with your children born from my body. If you'll let me."
    He fell silent.
    Presently she squeezed his hands, rose and went to peer out the window at the field she'd labored over.
    "I can't abide waste, Allan. Farm people are like that." She gestured at her tillings. "When you first showed me that field, and all the stuff in your barn, I knew I had to make use of it. You could have tried to send me down the road, but I think I'd have fought you even that very first day. And after you showed me yourself, I wasn't about to let you go to waste either."
    He shook his head. "So what have you been doing these past six weeks? Working up the nerve?"
    She chuckled. "Plus a little agriculture. Actually," she said, "I wanted to give you the right of the first move. After yesterday morning, I couldn't make myself wait any more." She returned to her seat and took his hands again. "Your turn."
    "Hm?"
    "Time to tell me how you feel about it -- about me."
    He was slow to answer.
    "I was...dead," he said. "Marie -- my wife -- left me a long while ago. It was harder on me than I realized at first. I lost interest in my work, and I became uncomfortable around others, and pretty soon I was alone. I tried to tell myself that I preferred it that way, but I was alone whether I liked it or not. I had money, so I took advantage of the opportunity to retire and get away. I landed here. Lots of space, no neighbors to speak of, no pressure of any kind. As long as I could get groceries and get to Mass on Sunday, I thought I had what I needed."
    "And then?"
    "Then there was you. The embodiment of life. Life on the hoof! What I'd needed but hadn't had the sense to look for or pursue, delivered right onto my porch on a breezy April day. From that very first moment, you brought me life in such abundance that I knew I couldn't stay dead. Want to know how I knew?"
    She nodded.
    "Because I couldn't look at you without quaking inside from the fear that you might get away."
    Her eyes brimmed over. She rose and pulled him out of his seat.
    "Come on," she said. "Let's get moving."
    "Hm?"
    "First," she said, "we shower. Then some toast or eggs or something. Then we go see Father Ray."
    "Why?"
    "Banns and a date, dummy! You do want our firstborn to be legitimate, don't you?" She tugged him down the hallway toward the master bathroom.
    "Oh. Right. Kate?"
    "Hm?"
    "Could I help with the farm? I don't know much about growing things, but...?"
    That stopped her. She turned and searched his face. "It's dirty, tiring work, Allan."
    "That's okay," he said, "if I can do it with you."
    She smiled and pulled him close. "That you can."

Go to Farm Girl Part Two: Soil Tests

Saturday, November 21, 2009

A Cup Of Courage

By Francis W. Porretto

Aaron Teitelbaum had the coldest smile Father Raymond Altomare had ever seen.

The lawyer was dressed in the height of Manhattan Legal style: a pinstriped three-piece navy blue suit, black Oxfords so brilliantly polished they seemed to outshine the conference room lights, and inconspicuous but quite impressive diamond-studded cufflinks. His glove-leather briefcase looked as if it had never been in contact with baser matter. The gold fountain pen and memo book he pulled from his inner jacket pocket were equally pristine. From the moment he'd walked into Ray's room at St. Gregory's rectory, Teitelbaum's smile had never wavered, but his eyes were fish flat and icy cold, and they never left Ray's face.

"Thank you for taking this meeting, Father," the lawyer said as they sat. "I hope I haven't greatly inconvenienced you, what with the pressures of the season."

"Not at all," Ray said. "As it happens, I was in town to visit my family for Christmas." The lawyer nodded minutely. Ray got the distinct impression that Teitelbaum had already known it. "But what could a parish priest from Onteora possibly do for you?"

"Quite a lot, actually." Teitelbaum slid a large glossy photo across the table. "You've heard of Del Nevins, of course?"

Of course. "The fellow condemned for the mass murder at the convenience store?"

Teitelbaum nodded again. "I was his attorney." He scowled fleetingly. "I still am. The court won't let me withdraw."

"Why do you need to withdraw?" Have you exhausted his money?

A spasm of distaste flew across the lawyer's face. "He's run out of appeals. His petition to the Supreme Court was denied a week ago yesterday."

"Doesn't that automatically free you from further obligation to him?"

"Not in a death penalty case." The lawyer looked as if he'd bitten into a ball of tin foil. "A condemned man is considered entitled to legal counsel right to the instant of his execution. The possibilities to save him might be dwindling, but given his destiny, the law holds that he must have an outside representative to work on his behalf, right to the end. But that's not really germane to why I've asked to speak with you, Father. Del's execution warrant was issued yesterday."

"So soon after his petition was turned down?"

Teitelbaum nodded. "He asked for it to be expedited."

Ray's suspicions swelled. He kept silent.

"I'm desperate to save this man's life, and I need all the help I can get. Your church has a history of opposing the death penalty. Del claims to be a Catholic."

"Very lawyerly phrasing, Mr. Teitelbaum."

The lawyer shrugged it aside. "How would I know what he really is?"

Ray hunched forward and slid to the edge of his cot. "Was he baptized into the Church? We do keep records, you know."

Teitelbaum reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a baptismal certificate. Ray peered at it. It appeared to be correctly executed. The seal looked genuine enough.

"Very well. So, has Mr. Nevins requested my services?"

"Not exactly, Father."

Ray's unease spiked. "I can't force my ministry on a man who doesn't want it, sir."

"Oh, he wants it. He just didn't ask for you specifically," Teitelbaum said. "And you might help me save his life."

"How so? It sounds as if he wants to die."

Teitelbaum stared down at his manicure for a long moment of silence.

"I've made some inquiries, Father. You're one of New York's more active priests. Some still remember that flap you had with your county executive over the nativity creche, two years ago. He won the technical battle on points, but you prevailed in the court of public opinion. And of course, you're young, photogenic, and dynamic. It all helps, when you're trying to rally public pressure on a sitting governor to issue a commutation."

"Well, thank you for all of that, but surely there are better known priests right here in Manhattan who could be of more assistance to you?"

Teitelbaum's face became a rigid mask. "Everything helps, Father." He rose and put out his hand. Ray rose and took it. "Are you willing to consider seeing Del?"

Would that be for his sake, or for yours? You must have called every priest in the five boroughs before you got to me...and they all turned you down.

"I'll get back to you about it."

The lawyer nodded. "Please don't take too long. The date of execution is January 2. At midnight."

Ray winced. "I won't."

Salvatore Altomare leaned forward over the dining room table and cocked a bushy eyebrow the color of new snow. "You gonna get involved in this rat's case?"

"Let's not prejudge him," Ray said, "He might have repented, you know."

"Whassat got to do with the price-a tea in China? He killed four people, and for what? Less than sixty bucks!"

Ray glanced fleetingly at his sister. Lisa was concentrating on her roast beef and maintaining an admirable poker face.

"Papa," Ray said in his softest voice, "you're not saying you'd have more sympathy for him if his haul had been bigger, are you?"

"Ahhhh!" The Altomare patriarch dismissed his son with a flip of the hand. "Get some sense-a proportion, kid. You gonna kill, you do it over somethin' worth killin' for. Not the price of a meal. Yanno, the pictures always make out that it's us Italians who kill at the drop of a hat, but you think Uncle Angie or Charley the Fade would kill over sixty bucks? You think Uncle Vito would? Not on your life -- and it would be your life to suggest it to 'em." He shook his head in wonderment over the decline in moral values. "You kids never unnerstood what it's really about."

The dining room became unnaturally still. Lisa laid her fork gently on her plate and sat back. Sal Altomare sat motionless, glaring in disappointment at the son who'd failed to follow him into the concrete business where he belonged. Ray simply allowed his thoughts to swirl until they coalesced.

"Then what is it about, Papa?"

"Balance, figlio mio. You gotta keep the balance. A life for a life. A death for a death. That way people can know what's comin' to 'em. You go killin' over a few quarters from a tip cup, or let a man live after he's killed one of your own, the whole system goes to hell." He rose and planted his fists on the table. "In the old days, everybody unnerstood that. We learned it early. You kids ain't never learned. 'S no wonder you got junkies killin' each other over a lump-a crack."

Ray closed his eyes.

The Church has condemned execution for decades. It's only permissible in the very worst cases, the Vatican said. But what if Papa's right and they're wrong? And what's worse than mass murder, anyway? Did Nevins have to do more to deserve his sentence? Did he have to torture his victims for his own death to be deserved? To keep the balance?

"Papa," Ray said softly, "I think I do understand it."

Lisa's eyes jerked up suddenly and fixed upon him.

"Then what, boy?" Sal said.

"I don't know."

Ray waited in the interview booth with as much sangfroid as he could muster. That wasn't much; over the whole drive up to Ossining, he'd thought of nothing but Nevins's victims, his lawyer's marked frigidity of manner, the Church's proclamation against capital punishment, and his father's diatribe of the evening before. When he'd identified himself to the deputy warden and asked to see Nevins, the man's manner, originally affable if solemn, had mutated instantly into a disapproval so intense that it verged on hatred. Several guards had sneered him where he sat, their disapproval unconcealed.

Christmas Eve in Sing Sing Prison. Among people who despise me, inmates and guards both. Lord, be my refuge.

Nevins appeared between two husky guards with truncheons, in full arm and leg shackles. The guards practically dragged him to the booth and shoved him into his chair. One of them plucked the handset from its holder, thrust it into the space between Nevins's ear and shoulder, snarled "Don't drop it," and backed away.

The condemned man was unremarkable in appearance: perhaps five-nine, a hundred seventy pounds, with watery brown eyes and thinning brown hair. He looked no more threatening than the average retail clerk...probably no more so than any of the four whose lives he had ended.

But he's here and they're nowhere.

Ray composed himself and put his handset to his ear. "Mr. Nevins, I'm Father Raymond Altomare of Our Lady of the Pines parish in Onteora County. Mr. Teitelbaum asked me to come up here and speak with you. He didn't say whether it was your wish or his."

Nevins smiled wanly. "Both, Father. Different reasons, though. How do you feel about the death penalty?"

Ray frowned. "You're a Catholic, aren't you?"

Nevins nodded.

"Then you must know the Church's position on the matter."

"That wasn't what I asked you, Father."

Ray hesitated, unsure.

"The Holy Father did leave an escape clause, didn't he?"

"Yes," Ray said, "but it was about...the safety of others. Whether a murderer could be confined in a manner that would leave him no opportunity to do further harm."

"I know, Father." Nevins's mouth twitched. "I've been in solitary confinement for the past nine years. I'd say the rest of society is pretty safe from me, even if I'd wanted to kill again. Don't you think so?"

"Mr. Nevins," Ray said, "I'm in no position to judge such things. But your lawyer told me that after your appeal to the Supreme Court was denied, you asked to have your execution scheduled as soon as possible. Is that correct?"

Nevins nodded minutely.

"If you want to live -- if my opinion of whether you ought to be allowed to live matters to you -- why did you do that?"

Nevins dropped his eyes to the little desk at which he sat. He was silent for a long interval. Ray searched the murderer's face, looking for any clues it might hold to his tangle of contradictions. He saw nothing he could identify.

"Because," Nevins said at last, "I'm afraid to die."

"I can't do anything for him, Mr. Teitelbaum," Ray said. "The law takes no account of a man's fears or Church doctrine. The governor has refused to consider a commutation. Seven days from now Nevins will stand before the Bar of Judgment no matter what you, I, or His Holiness the Pope might have to say about it."

"I know that, Father." The lawyer reached for his coffee and took a small sip. "But you have some sense for the man, now. He admits his guilt, and he knows what he faces. It simply terrifies him. The guards are likely to have to render him unconscious to get him into the execution chamber. He loses his sphincter control every time he thinks about it. And frankly," Teitelbaum said, lips pressed into a thin line, "that's something I think we would all rather avert if we could."

"Do you know," Ray said with sudden energy, "why he fears death so greatly?"

Teitelbaum cocked an eyebrow. "For the same reasons we all do, I'd imagine."

"Not quite, sir. Nevins is afraid that he's committed an unforgivable crime. He's confessed it and been granted absolution -- several times, according to the prison chaplain -- but he can't bring himself to believe that God will accept him after what he's done. He expects to face eternity in Hell. He finds that a lot more frightening than mere death. I'd expect anyone would." Ray paused, remembering. "I offered to shrive him again, right then and there. He said it wouldn't matter."

Teitelbaum looked away. He muttered something inaudible.

"Excuse me?"

The lawyer's eyes locked onto Ray's. "I said, God save us from true believers."

Ray was silent.

"Did he ask you for anything else, Father?"

Ray nodded. "To be present at the execution."

"Nothing but that?"

"Nothing but that."

Teitelbaum rose. "Then I suppose our work, however unsatisfactorily concluded, is done." He extended a hand. Ray rose and took it. "Thank you for your time, Father."

Ray looked up from his coffee to find his sister standing in the kitchen entranceway.

"You're up pretty early on New Year's Day," she said. She pulled her robe a little more snugly around her and sat beside him.

"Couldn't sleep."

"It's tonight, isn't it?"

Ray nodded.

"You're sure you ought to go?"

"I have to go," Ray said. "It's a duty."

"You won't enjoy it."

"I don't expect to."

She nodded.

"Lise, he says he believes. He was baptized and confirmed. He accepts Christ as the Son of God. He acknowledges me and other priests as Christ's vicars. He's asked me to perform Extreme Unction. But then why can't he believe he's been absolved?" Ray felt his hands ball involuntarily into fists. "Do we do too good a job of frightening people about the possible consequences of their sins? Do we say too little about the power of absolution and the infinite mercy of God?"

Have I enlisted in the biggest fright machine in the history of Man?

"I don't know, Ray," she said. "I'd say it varies. Father Keane is one sort of priest, Father Holcomb the opposite. I look to one for castigation and the other for compassion. If they behave differently with their other parishioners, I have no way of knowing."

"Have you spoken to either of them about this?" he said.

She nodded.

"And?"

"They both said they were sure you'd find the right path." She smiled. "They think the world of you, you know."

"Yeah." He stared aimlessly into the gloom. "And you know I don't deserve it."

"Well," she said with a chuckle, "they didn't grow up with you. So, what next?"

He stood, and she rose with him.

"I'm going to shower and shave," he said. "Then I'm going to Mass. After that...I don't know."

His sister's eyes expressed a confidence in him that he could not feel. "You will."

Nevins entered the little interrogation room tentatively, as if he were surprised to find himself there. He looked about in bewilderment, finally fixing on Ray, who stood behind a small table in his chasuble, alb, and stole.

Ray gestured Nevins toward the single chair placed before the table, waited for him to seat himself, and made a steeple of his hands.

"The Lord be with you," he intoned.

Nevins rose as if compelled. "And also with you," he whispered.

Ray celebrated Mass just as he had for the decade past. He recited the Creed, and Nevins recited it with him. He read from Chapter 26 of the Gospel according to Matthew, as steadily as he could. As he raised the host in the first act of consecration, he prayed silently for guidance and strength.

Lord, help me to do what this man needs. Help me to help him find You in himself.

As he raised the chalice in the conclusion of the consecration rite, he felt a vast peace descend upon him, and with it the certainty he had sought.

"For this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all, that sins may be forgiven." Ray's voice cracked and fell to a whisper. "Do this in memory of me."

When he had swallowed the host and sipped from the chalice, he looked directly at the kneeling convict and said, "Come forward, ye child of God."

And Nevins did. He accepted the host upon his tongue, swallowed quickly, and made to return to his place, but Ray stopped him and offered the chalice to him.

"Drink of the blood of Christ. Partake of His courage."

Nevins took the cup hesitantly, as if it might be snatched away from him at any instant. He sipped quickly and made to return it to Ray's hand.

"No," Ray said. "Finish it."

Eyes wide in incredulity, Nevins did.

"Let us pray."

They fell to their knees, priest and convict together, clasping one another and praying as one.

Ray stepped through the apartment door to find his father reading a newspaper in the living room.

"Finished?" Salvatore Altomare said.

Ray nodded.

"He's dead?"

Another nod.

Sal Altomare grunted, started to return to his paper, then shoved it aside. He rose and peered into his son's eyes.

"You unnerstand about the balance now, figlio mio?"

"I think so, Papa," Ray said. I think he did, too. "Thank you."

"Ain't nothin'," his father said. "You shoulda known. But hey," he said, grinning, "Whatsa father for, right?"

Father Raymond Altomare pulled his father close and kissed his seamed cheek. "Right."