Billy’s face was pasty white.
Rae Lynn said, “Ready?”
Billy took another slurp, swallowed, and said, “Go.”
Warren and Rae Lynn shoved quick and hard, and as the barrel rolled away, Rae Lynn winced as Billy let off another howl before staring bug-eyed at his foot, as if expecting to see a mangled mess.
Finally, he said, “It don’t look so bad, but it hurts like a sonofabitch.”
He started to untie his boot, but when he went to pull it off, he stopped. He straightened back up and looked to Rae Lynn.
“I cain’t,” he whispered.
Rae Lynn said, “Want me to?”
Billy swore again, then said, “I’m ‘bout to puke.”
Instead of trying to pull his boot off, Rae Lynn lifted the flap of leather at the toe. The once-pink toes were blue, and there was some blood. Like her finger, she was almost certain Billy’s foot was crushed. She raised her eyes, her green meeting his blue.
She wrinkled her forehead, and said, “Them toes, maybe higher too, it’s all been pinched but good.”
Her calmness and choice of words didn’t match the tragic expression on her face. Billy’s awareness of his predicament sunk in.
He said, “How in hell am I gonna work with a busted-up foot? They said I ought not come here. Now look what’s happened.”
Warren got offended. “Didn’t nobody twist your arm. And who said that anyway?”
Billy tried to test his foot to see if it could bear his weight.
Rae Lynn put her hand on his arm to help, but he pulled away and said, “Keep your damn hands off’n me.” He turned to Warren, “Everyone says it.”
Rae Lynn was offended now. “Fine. Go on then.”
Billy limped about, searching until he found a stick nearby to help him balance and walk. He managed, hobbling badly, though, and there he went, back where he came from. She turned to Warren with a disbelieving look.
He threw up his hands. “He didn’t know what he was doing anyway.”
“We got to have help, Warren. We can’t do this all on our own. Won’t you send Eugene a letter, ask him to come?”
Incredulous, Warren reared his head back and said, “Eugene? Naw. He’s busy running that law practice a his. If he ain’t been home in all this time, why you think he’d come now?”
“Because he’s your son?”
Warren gave a contemptuous snort. “He always was a mama’s boy, and after she died, he said he won’t never coming back, not unless there was something in it for him.”
Within a month Warren’s words would come back on him, ringing with truth.
Chapter 3
Del
Del didn’t know Moe climbed the ladder and stared into the grain bin where nothing but corn could be seen. He couldn’t have seen him if he wanted. The kernels covered him completely, pressing his flesh from all directions like he’d been locked down by some strange force. He tried to gulp air, but the rise and fall of his chest was shallow. He choked, strained futilely, exhaled, and finally was unable to draw in any air. His mind sent his body warnings, and his heart shuddered, in shock. He was vertically entrapped four feet below fifteen feet of grain.
Moe yelled to the other men. “Can’t see nothing. He’s gone under. Probly dead.”
Del heard those words, and then he could see what was happening too. How Moe descended the ladder. How Hicky and Woot dug furiously, tossing corn by the shovelful over their shoulders. He no longer felt crushing pain in his chest. He watched a third man run across the field next to the bin and open a door on the other side. He grabbed a shovel and began stabbing at the wall of corn. Del didn’t know how this was happening, how he was able to see all of this. He must be dreaming. Moe stood off a ways and lit a cigar. The compacted corn began to flow out of both doors freely, while the men worked furiously to keep the openings clear. Unexpectedly he watched himself tumble out on the side where Hicky and Woot worked, his body limp, inert, a crumbled form of humanity, coated in dust.
Hicky flipped him over and swiped out his mouth. He beat on his chest, yelling at him, “Hey! Hey!”
Moe said, “He’s dead, ain’t he.”
The man sounded like he wanted it so. But wait. Dead? He wasn’t dead, was he? He could see everything, yet he felt nothing. He heard the distant call of Pap’s voice, years gone now, saying his name. How was this possible? Without warning, he was filled with a strong urge to separate himself from this experience, refusing to accept this outcome, his will so compelling it swept over him like the grain, and then it was corn all around him again. He felt himself moving, sliding, the sensation like falling backward. Crushing pain came, blossomed, and something akin to a lightning strike blinded his view of what he’d seen.