When Devils Sing(13)
As Isaiah finished stuffing his face with grits and eggs, a car’s engine sounded from a distance. His ears perked at the rumble before he craned his neck to peer out the kitchen window, eyes searching.
Grandma Bee followed his gaze, frowning ever so slightly. “Your father’s not coming, baby.”
Isaiah repressed a sigh. “He never said no, Bee.”
“Maybe so. But he never said yes, either.” Grandma Bee fixed him with a level gaze. “You and I both know, good and well, that this farm means little to nothin’ to Laurence these days. He’s too proud to be digging in Carrion dirt.”
“I know.” Even so, Isaiah had hoped differently. But hope was a fickle thing when it came to the actions of his father.
“Don’t worry yourself over nothin’.” Grandma Bee’s gaze turned sympathetic as she wiped her hands on her kitchen apron. The fabric was adorned with handsewn bees of different sizes and stitching. Each one affectionately sewn on by a member of Isaiah’s family—a gift for her seventieth birthday. “There’s plenty of folks who are happy to be here.”
Isaiah nodded, walking his plate to the sink. He scrubbed the dish absently, wondering what was more important to his father than this. He supposed that list was long, growing longer with each day as his father grew increasingly involved with his work as a judge for the state. But Isaiah had suspicions there was more on his father’s mind than just the docket.
“Papa Charles and I were going to wait to give your graduation gift to you,” Bee said, interrupting Isaiah’s thoughts. She held something behind her back, a wide smile spreading across her face. “But you know me—I’ve never much been a patient woman.”
Isaiah dried his hands with a kitchen towel. “Oh, Bee. I told you that you didn’t have to get…” His voice faded away as his grandmother revealed a bow-wrapped film camera. Vintage, boxy, with an attached leather strap to rest around his neck. He’d been eyeing one just like it on eBay for months. “I—I don’t know what to say.” He stepped forward, his fingers delicately assessing the body of the camera.
“It’s what you deserve, baby.” Grandma Bee beamed.
Isaiah gently set the camera down on the counter, then wrapped his grandmother in a tight hug. He struggled against the joyous tears welling up in his eyes. “I can’t thank you both enough. For everything.”
Grandma Bee stood on her tiptoes, clutching the sides of his face. “Just be sure you’ll put the camera to good use this summer, all right? I don’t want you getting in your father’s habit of workin’ more than living.” She clapped her hands together. “Now, let’s get going. We’ve kept everybody waiting too long.”
Once Isaiah finally stepped outside on the screened-in porch, he was greeted by bright cheers and animated claps. Aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends—all gathered around him with hugs, kisses, and shoulder squeezes, drowning him in the kind of love that made summers in Carrion special.
“How does it feel to be a Harvard hotshot now?” Aunt Tamera teased as Isaiah hoisted his eleven-year-old cousin, Keisha, onto his back for a piggyback ride.
Flashing his signature smile, Isaiah said, “Pretty good.” He continued to field questions left and right about his acceptance for the fall, all the while trotting in circles with Keisha on his back.
Dawn just barely broke along the horizon, casting the farm in the soft, warm hues of morning. Cardinals sang all around them, calling to one another from the pine trees. The chicken coop hens clucked around their enclosure, the roosters still crowing over them. Somewhere on a neighboring farm, cows mooed, the sound carrying through the dewy air. Isaiah took advantage of every spare moment, photographing the beauty of the world around him.
A few more cars bounced down the gravel driveway of the Johnson farm—last-minute stragglers, cousins and neighbors and people from the Carrion community. Isaiah’s grandparents were loved by many, and their farm was treated just the same. Grandma Bee greeted them with paper plates of breakfast, parceling out food like it was a party. Before long, Isaiah was dizzy from hugs and laughter and the warmth of being completely at ease.
Eventually, Isaiah joined everyone by the shed, donning gardening gloves and sorting crates for the vegetables. He changed into dirt-caked work boots, gazing out across the tidy rows of crops that stretched across the flat landscape. A smaller harvest than usual, but it was no surprise. Over the years, the once-sprawling acreage his family owned had been sold off, piece by piece.
According to Papa Charles, farming wasn’t what it once was, especially for Black farmers. Every year the profits grew slimmer as massive agricultural companies bought up the land of Southwest Georgia, turning the art of cultivating food into a sterile practice, one driven by profit over a reverence for the earth.
A whistle cut through the air, silencing the farm. Papa Charles, adorned in his signature overalls, waved everyone over to him. The Johnson family and friends finally gathered in front of the shed for the usual Papa-Charles-Harvest-Day speech.
“It’s nothin’ short of a miracle that we’re here today,” Papa Charles began, his dark eyes glistening. “We are truly blessed to have this land and these people to tend to it. Thank you for coming out to help. Now, let us harvest the crops and feed those we love.”
Isaiah looked onto the community of people that showed up for his family. The smiles and the care that was as clear as the morning sun. For a breath, Isaiah wanted there to be nothing more to Carrion than what was in front of him. No unnerving email. No secrets. Nothing buried in the soil other than the seeds his family planted.