Today feels like the worst day of my life, but the scar on my back is proof it’s not.
My uncle follows me into the trailer and shakes his head in disgust. It’s what he does. Sticks his nose up when he walks in as if the place stinks like a garbage dump. But like it has for as long as I can remember, the trailer smells of oatmeal cookies.
This place is home. The furniture filling the trailer is antiques from the farmhouse Gran was born in—the aging and condemned building next to the trailer. On the blue walls of the living room are paintings of moss-covered trees bending over long, straight paths. Being a neat freak, Gran had everything in place, everything right, everything but me.
Thinking the curse was ridiculous town folklore, poor Uncle Marshall married into the family. He lost his wife, my aunt Julia, two years after they married. Even still, he doesn’t believe. His fancy law degree and shiny practice make him too practical for the reality that there’s something soiled in the blood of my family.
Gotta admit, I feel sorry for the man. He loved Aunt Julia. She loved him. Just because I pity him doesn’t mean I like him, and it doesn’t mean he likes me. The sole reason the two of us have stayed civil died two days ago.
“How are you?” Marshall asks, and from his tone, he’s sincere, but the question is stupid. I lost my grandmother. He knows how I’m doing.
“Okay.” I rest Gran’s urn on the mantel of the heater that was built to look like a fireplace then place a hand on the side of the urn as if I’m touching her.
God, I miss her already. Holes in hearts hurt, and I have too many holes for me to be breathing. Gran poured her love into me, so much, I should have been fixed, but maybe that’s the problem with having too many holes. All the love that’s poured in falls out.
A year ago, Gran dragged my ass out of bed to help her pull weeds. She wore that old floppy sunhat with a foot-long brim, wearing overalls like she was the one who would be getting dirty. She didn’t get dirty, though. She sat in her lawn chair as I dug in the earth and bossed me around. That’s not a weed, Jesse, that’s an onion. I raised you to know the difference.
Are you sure? It looks like a weed.
I had held up the onion and fought the smile on my face. I knew what I was pulling, and I knew it would piss her off. Seeing the onion in my hand, Gran had gone into an eloquent swearing rant that could make a sailor blush and me smile even in my darkest moments. At the end of her rant, at the end of most every rant, she laughed. Good and long.
From her lawn chair throne, she readjusted the hat on her head and ordered me back to work. She was the queen of our sad sod of land.
“You were wise to not scatter her ashes in the cemetery.” My uncle tries again for cordial. This is why Gran liked him, why she kept him tied to the Lachlins even though he moved on, remarried and started a family with someone new. “She would have wanted to be spread on her land.”
Scattering her ashes . . . my eyes burn, and I turn my back to Marshall to open the living room curtains. Scarlett’s massive home comes into view. It’s towering, made of stone, and when I was a kid, I used to think it was a castle.
The Copelands’ mini-mansion and my trailer are the only homes on our long gravel road. We’re a mile from a paved road, and even farther from a decent subdivision. We’re literally the edge of nowhere with no other signs of life besides birds and the occasional lost deer.
Across the road, Scarlett walks barefoot to the mailbox. She holds her shoes in her hand and her sundress swishes with her stride, occasionally showing more leg than she typically allows. Her hair is tied in a knot at the base of her neck. When we were kids, she was all knees and elbows with a tomboy attitude, but now she’s grown-up and gorgeous.
Long black hair, blue eyes, Scarlett. . . . my Tink.
The service. Shoes in hand. She walked. I lower my head and silently curse. I should have noticed she didn’t have a ride, should have offered her a way back instead of leaving her alone. I should have done a lot of things differently, but I didn’t. Story of my life.
Oblivious to me watching, Scarlett flips through the letters. Too many times, in the dark moments of night, I think of her and lazy, hot days under the willow tree. I think of the endless summer nights chasing fireflies in the long blades of grass. I think of her tinkling laughter, her obsession with bright stars in the black sky, and of her daring smile.
Cobwebs of the past have overtaken my brain, and if I continue to linger, I’ll suffocate in the web. The past isn’t a place I like to play, as most of my memories are too brutal to visit.
Here and now. Stay in the present and stay focused on the goal—my land.
I take off my baseball cap and run a hand through my hair as I cross over the invisible line of the living room to the kitchen. I open the fridge and there’s not much there. Sliced ham, two individual prepackaged slices of cheese, leftover pizza and beer.
“The church property was one of the first pieces of Lachlin land sold off,” Marshall says as he sits on the love seat. It’s not a comfortable piece of furniture, but it’s probably worth more than my life. That is if I could find someone stupid enough to drive to the middle of nowhere to appraise it as an antique. “Did you know that?”
Yeah, I did. Gran told me every bit of information on the Lachlins. My own personal bedtime stories in the vain of the Brothers Grimm. My family lineage is so messed up there are days I would have preferred being told I was three-quarters troll.
Over half this county used to belong to the Lachlins, but slowly the land has been sold off. Generation after generation, year by year, parcel by parcel, in order to keep the Lachlins from going under in debt. Now, the six hundred acres and me are all that’s left. I’m land rich but cash poor. Not a good combination.
I keep staring at the fridge because my mind is running slow. In the sink is Gran’s empty china teacup. I can’t bring myself to wash it. It’s as if I do, I’m admitting she’s gone. A tightness in my chest and I suck in a shaky breath. God, I’m dying.
The refrigerator motor kicks on and draws me back to the near-empty shelves. I shouldn’t do it. Won’t help Marshall’s opinion of me, but I lost the only person in my life I allowed myself to love. A beer buzz sounds good.
I pull out a beer, and because Gran loved southern hospitality, I tilt the bottle in his direction. “Want one?”
“You’re not old enough to drink.”
I’m not, but Gran never cared. Marshall’s answer wasn’t a firm no so I grab another and slide it to him across the coffee table Gran said was imported from England by her great-great grandfather. I sit on the only piece of comfortable furniture in the room—Gran’s recliner.
I pop open my cap and drink. Marshall stares at the bottle in front of him. He’s considering it, and that makes me slightly like him.
“Your grandmother made me the executor of her will.”
I know this. He’s a lawyer. I’m not. I’m seventeen. He’s boring and forty.
“I’m your legal guardian,” Marshall says, “but let me be clear, I will not clean up your messes. As we discussed in June, you think you’re old enough to live on your own, and I’m going to respect that decision. The state will only care if you dig yourself a hole. It’s up to you if you’re going to dig it.”
His eyes flicker to the beer in my hand, and I place it on the coffee table.
“If there are problems, I’m moving you into my house, and you’ll live by my rules. The only way I’ll allow you to live here is if you stay out of trouble, do you understand?”
“Yes.” He’s not pushing me into his house because he doesn’t want me around his wife and children.
“Until you turn eighteen, I’ll be handling the accounting for anything associated with the land.” This isn’t a shock. Gran listed Marshall on the farm account six months ago. She said when the land officially becomes mine so would the account. “That doesn’t mean I’m personally helping with anything associated with the farm.”
That’s his stuck-up, suit-wearing way of saying he’s not the type of guy who can stand dirt under his fingernails. It must suck to be him. “I can handle taking care of the land.” I’ve been doing it most of my life.
“If you need money, send me an email detailing exactly what you need, why you need it and a detailed cost analysis as well as bids/costs from three places. Do not spend a dime on this farm without clearing the purchase with me, do you understand?”
“This isn’t your stuffy office where I need a purchase order number to buy a hammer. It’s a farm.”
“A farm is a business. That’s a lesson you need to learn.”
“Do you know a thing about farming?” I counter.
He ignores me. “Your gran told me you’ve been saving money in a separate account so you could handle the bills associated with living in the trailer after her death. Is this true?”
I nod. It’s not much. Most of the money I made went into the land account to keep the property afloat. If I’m careful with what I tucked away in the personal account, I won’t starve—yet.
Saving wasn’t easy, but like damn squirrels Gran and I socked away as much as we could. Beyond the six hundred acres, we’re broke. Gran was living off of social security, and she made money by leasing our land to other farmers. Not able to take care of the land herself, she allowed other farmers to use our land to plant crops for themselves or to graze their cattle, and they pay us rent. They also pay me to work their fields or tend to their animals.
Last year, I convinced Gran to let me keep some of the property for hay. Problem was, I had to rent equipment to cut and bail the hay, and I didn’t make any money. In fact, I barely broke even. Farming’s an investment, and it’s not cheap.
Marshall leans forward and rubs his hands together like he’s nervous. He and I don’t get along, but I’m playing nice and so is he. The nervousness is out of place. He reaches into his man-bag overstuffed with papers, pulls out a crisp folder and slides it to me.
A few paragraphs in, I sway as if I’ve been hit in the head. “What the hell is this?”
Another rub of his hands. “A test.”
I toss the folder back in his direction and wait for a better answer. He stares back because he knows I can read, process information and, according to some tests, I’m smart.
“This land is mine,” I say, “so this joke isn’t funny.”
“The acre that contains the trailer will remain yours regardless of what happens.”
“This land is mine,” I repeat slowly in case he hadn’t caught on the first time.
“I told your grandmother to give you this acre alone, let me sell the rest and put the money into a trust for you, but she disagreed. I don’t believe you can handle the responsibility of this land. She did, but she understood my reservations. So we split our differences and agreed to set up a tribunal.”
“A tribunal?”
“Three of us are going to watch you and make the decision if you’re responsible enough to own the land. We’ll vote when you turn eighteen in May. If the vote goes against you, the farm will be sold. The payments will be spread out over ten years to guarantee you’ll make good financial decisions. This test, the tribunal, is a good plan. A fair plan. It gives you a fighting chance to own the land.”
My uncle is a bastard. “How did you talk Gran into this? Did you lie to her? Did you make her sign papers she didn’t even know she was signing?”
“I didn’t have to do anything. Your grandmother was worried about leaving you such a big responsibility at a young age. I have to admit, I’m worried, too.”
I bitterly chuckle. “You’re worried? Last I checked, you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, Jesse. I think you make bad choices.”
“I make plenty of good choices.” Choices that kept my grandmother happy over the last years of her life. Choices that were hard on me, but helped the people I loved.
“You believe that?” Marshall challenges.
My eyes widen in affirmation.
“Drug possession.”
“It was pot, and that’s legal in some states.” And I bought it for a friend.
“Suspension from school for fighting.”
“The guy was an ass. You would have hit him, too.”
“You buck authority, have no grounding, ignore rules, and you have no idea what it means to take on a farm of this size and not run it into the ground.”
My head jerks back as if his words were a physical blow. “No sense of responsibility? Who do you think had been taking care of Gran?”
Marshall looks me square in the eye. “Me.”
My muscles tighten, and it’s hard as hell not to punch him in the face. Yeah, Marshall took care of Gran’s finances, but it was me who took care of this place, me who made sure she was eating and me who watched over her day after day.
“Farming isn’t owning a shovel and throwing down some seeds. To make this a working farm, you’ll have to take out a loan to buy equipment. The only equity you have is the property—this acre and trailer included. If you default on the loan, you’ll be left with nothing. That idea terrified your grandmother.”
I stand because I don’t know what else to do. What the hell was Gran thinking? Searching for support, I go to the window and lean my hands against the frame. “I won’t lose it.”
“I also wouldn’t be doing a good job as the executor of your grandmother’s estate and your guardian if I didn’t consider the possibility that you’d sell the land yourself the day of your eighteenth birthday and blow the profits within the first year.”
I round to glare at him. “You honestly think I could sell?”
“Before her death you had asked me about selling.”
A small portion, just a few acres. Because I wanted to help Gran. I thought maybe if I had more money we could find a new specialist, a better specialist, someone who could help her live longer, but he didn’t believe me. He never believes me. “So you’re the decision maker now?”
He waits too many beats before speaking or maybe not enough. “I took on this role because, believe it or not, I care. I won’t pretend to understand the pain you’ve gone through, and I won’t pretend to understand your connection to this land. I’ve watched you grow up. I know, for you, this farm is like a Band-Aid on cuts that won’t stop bleeding.”
If that was meant to make me feel better, it didn’t. “You’ll never vote for me. You’re biased.”
“I’m not biased.”
For days I’ve been a stick under pressure, being bent too far. Finally, I snap. “I know you told Gran not to take me in after Mom died and to put me in foster care. You told her I was too broken and couldn’t be fixed. I know because I heard you. Tell me now you’re not biased.”
Guilt flashes over his face, and he tries to hide it as he flips through the folder in his hands. “If it helps, that’s why your grandmother set up the tribunal and chose two other people to help make the decision. Majority vote will win, and she believed you’ll rise to the challenge.”
I’m not sure if I respect him or hate him for not denying what we both know is true regarding the foster care. I’m also not sure how I feel that he doesn’t apologize either.
“She chose people who will give you a fair shake,” he continues. “This isn’t a death sentence. It’s a wake-up call. It’s August, and you have until May to prove you’re responsible. You have time. Take it. Prove me wrong.”
A growing sense of purpose takes root within me, and I do my best to funnel my anger and grief into it. “Who, besides you, is on the tribunal?”
“If I tell you then I run the risk of you putting on a show for those people. This is your chance to change for the better. Take advantage of it.” Marshall leaves the paperwork on the antique table, shoves his folder back in his leather bag and stands. “If it’s any consolation, I want you to succeed, but I want you to truly succeed. I won’t vote for you to keep the land unless you show me you understand what it means to run a farm of this magnitude.”
It’s no consolation. That’s him attempting to ease his guilt for when he votes against me.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Jesse. If you need to talk or if you’d like to stop by for a meal, you’re welcome at my house. And if you get tired of being here alone, you can live with us. We have plenty of room.”
I don’t believe any of that, but I nod because doing so will get him out of my home faster. Marshall stares at me for a few more seconds, as if contemplating saying more, but he doesn’t. Instead he walks out, shutting the door behind him.
His engine purrs to life and rocks crack under his moving tires. Then there’s silence. Maddening silence. I drop into Gran’s recliner, lower my head into my hands and close my eyes. I’ve lost Gran, and now I could lose my land. The only thing left that I love. The only thing in my life that brings me peace. “Why, Gran?”
I strain to listen in the silence, and my gut twists that there’s no response. “I miss you.”
Still no response and my head begins to throb. My cell in my back pocket vibrates. I dig it out, expecting to see a text from one of my friends, but I pop my neck to the right at the sight of Glory’s name. You need to stop by tomorrow night.
Me: No
Glory: I know of your grandmother’s plan.
Me: So do I
Glory: But I know who the people are who will be deciding your future.
Me—stone cold frozen.
Glory: Stop by tomorrow at nine. I should be wrapping up my last session then.
Me: I won’t be there.
Glory: Yes, you will.