The Harvesting (2 page)

“
Well, Grandma, it is a
dining room.” I noticed that the old oak China cabinet had been
pushed in front of the living room picture window. It was now
blocking most of the light.

“
Grandma . . .” I began,
but I was not sure what to say.

“
Here, Layla, I want you
to go to store. Buy all the things on my list. No questions. Just
buy it all,” she said and then handed me a wad of hundred dollar
bills. I looked from the money to the list to her and back to the
list again. “No questions,” she said, “but take a shower first. You
stink.”

“
Grandma.”

“
I’ll get you a
towel.”

My grandmother’s bathroom, decorated
with red-trimmed white towels and smelling like lemons, was a stark
contrast to the rest of the house. So confused by the scene, I
didn’t know what to do. Like the obedient girl I’d always been, I
did what she told me. As the water poured over me, I tried to make
sense of what was going on. All I knew was every hair on the back
of my neck had risen and there seemed to be an odd buzzing in my
ears, like the feeling of being near something high-voltage. I
tried to shake it but couldn’t. My grandmother’s seriousness made
me want to obey her, but too much life and education made me want
to stop in my tracks.

When I came out of the shower my
grandmother was nowhere to be found. She’d left me a clean towel
and a note written in Russian: “Went to woods. Will be back. You go
to the store.”

I went to my room to unpack. It was
full of boxes. Inside I found cases of antibiotics, bandages, and
other medical equipment. I dressed quickly and went onto the front
porch. From that vantage point, I noticed that Grandma had recently
installed a very tall chain-link fence around the house. I was so
tired when I’d arrived I hadn’t notice it. The gate stood ajar.
Grandma must have left it open when she went on her walk. Things
were getting weirder by the moment.

“
Grandma?” I called into
the forest behind her house, but there was no reply. I decided to
head to town and shop as she’d asked.

It was a Saturday morning, and the
streets of the sleepy town were a-typically quiet. I pulled into
the parking lot of “Hicktown Hardware and Huntin’ Goods.” At least
the owners, the Lewis family, had a sense of humor. I made a silent
prayer to God that I would not run into anyone I knew. No
luck.

“
Ah, Layla, are you here
to pick up Grandma Petrovich’s order?” the owner, Mrs. Lewis, asked
as she snubbed out her cigarette. The air around the cash register
was hazy blue. I had not seen Mrs. Lewis in almost five years, but
she still looked exactly the same: tightly permed brown hair,
overly thick smoke stained glasses, and blazing pink fingernail
polish. She had been glued to a small T.V. sitting beside the cash
register. I could hear the over-expressive voices of excited
newscasters.

I nodded. “She added a few more
things,” I said and read off the list which included more batteries
than one person could need in a lifetime, two-way radios, three
axes, and high-powered binoculars.

Mrs. Lewis instructed a shop boy to
gather the items on my list. I paid cash, nearly $1200, for all of
the items, including the pre-order which was packed into mystery
boxes.

At the grocery store I was met with a
similar pre-order.

“
Have to admit,” Clark
said as he helped me load my SUV, “I was surprised to hear your
Grandma on the phone. She is almost a recluse. I think Father
Ritchie checks in on her from time to time, but otherwise she
doesn’t come out much anymore. What is she doing with all this
stuff anyway?”

Something inside me told me to lie.
“We’re going on a trip out west. You know how these old people are.
She wanted to make sure we had enough.”

“
You gonna rent an RV or
something?”

“
Yeah, that’s the
plan.”

“
Whoa, what are these?”
Clark asked as he stumbled across the swords and fencing gear I had
left in the back.

“
Swords, actually. Well, I
should be getting back,” I said, looking down at Grandma’s list.
Clark waved goodbye, and I slid back into my SUV. The first two
stops on the list were not difficult, but the next two puzzled
me.

She left instructions for me to stop
by “Campbell Feed and Lumber.” She knew very well that was the last
place I would go. She wanted fifty pound sacks of corn and wheat
flour. I looked up the street toward the shop. I waited. After a
few moments Ian appeared on the loading dock outside the store. He
lowered two large bags onto the back of a flatbed pickup. He
laughed as he talked to the driver. I could almost see that funny
wrinkle he gets in the corner of his mouth when he smiles. He waved
goodbye to his customer and turned to go back inside but then
stopped. He looked up the street, his eyes settling on my SUV. He
took two steps down the loading platform toward me.

“
Oh my god,” I
whispered.

A moment later, Kristie, his wife,
appeared at the shop door and called him back inside. He turned,
casting one last look my way, and then went in.

“
Bitch,” I whispered and
turned the ignition over in my car and headed up Lakeview Drive
toward the Catholic Church.

My grandmother was not a religious
person. Whenever she was invited to go to church, she would
decline, saying “no, no, no, I am Russian Orthodox,” and the
conversation would end. Privately, however, I had never seen my
grandma act in any way that was remotely Christian. In fact, some
of her odd “old country” practices often had a pagan
flavor.

When I got to the Catholic Church the
doors were open. I stopped when I entered, taking a moment to
smooth my hair, checking my reflection in a mirror hanging on the
wall just by the door. I was glad Grandma had made me take a
shower. I pushed my thick black hair into a ponytail. The church
candlelight made my green eyes sparkle.

“
Can I help you?” a voice
asked.

I turned to see Father Ritchie
standing there. It had been years since I’d last seen him. He used
to coach the boys high school basketball team. He looked so much
older. “Father, I am Layla Petrovich. My grandmother asked me to
come see you,” I replied.

“
Ah yes, Layla. How is
your grandmother?” He was quick to hide his confusion. I could
almost hear him thinking:
what is she
doing here?

“
I’m not sure, Father.
But, regardless, my grandmother asked me to come and request holy
water.”

“
Whatever for?”

“
To be honest, I don’t
know. My grandmother has her ways, and most of the time I just do
as she wants.”

Father Ritchie laughed. “Well, with
Grandma Petrovich, I understand. Now, we are not in the practice of
giving out holy water, but I suppose it won’t hurt anything. I’ll
be back in a moment,” he said and went to the rectory.

I sat in the last pew and waited. I
felt like a stranger in a strange land. The stained glass windows
showed images of saints. The window closest to the pew where I sat
had an image of St. Michael slaying a dragon. Behind me a statue of
Mary stood over the votive prayer candles. Five candles were lit.
Their flames cast glowing light on Mary’s elongated face and hands.
The statue depicted Mary with overly-white skin and pale lips. She
wore the lightest of blue robes. A small chip had come off one side
of her nose, disfiguring her. It showed the gray plaster beneath. I
closed my eyes. The images in the church bombarded me. I could not
quiet my mind. Flashes appeared before my eyes, random unclear
images. Then the face of a dead woman appeared before me; like
Mary, her nose was torn off. She was grunting and biting at me
through a fence. Though her decayed face was horrific, I noticed
she had a striking red ribbon in her hair. I shuddered, my eyes
popping open.

“
Here you are, Layla. Can
I expect you and Grandma to come to Mass this Sunday?”

“
Thank you so much,
Father. I appreciate it. No, I’m sorry. You know we are Russian
Orthodox. Thank you again,” I said and hurriedly left the
church.

Before heading back to my SUV I walked
to the cemetery; it sat to the right of the church. Grandpa
Petrovich was buried there. It occurred to me Grandma might not
have been by to clean his headstone. I walked toward the tall
willow tree; Grandpa Petrovich was buried underneath.

Though I had never met him, I’d heard
about Grandpa Petrovich often enough that he seemed alive in my
memory. My grandma loved to tell their story. Back in Russia, their
families had known one another. They courted but nothing came of
it. Then my grandmother decided to come to the US. My Grandfather,
Sasha, had written to her every week for five years asking her to
come home. Since she always refused, he finally came to the US to
join her. They were married almost immediately, and my mother was
conceived. But my Grandfather died shortly after coming to the
United States. There had been some sort of accident at his work.
“Well, I told him not to come,” my grandmother would say, but I saw
the pain behind her eyes. I always wondered if she had foreseen his
early death.

I found his monument in the same state
as Grandma’s house. First, I cleared away the weeds. Then taking a
scarf from my pocket, I wiped off the face of his tombstone. It was
a shame. I would bring my grandmother by to plant some
flowers.

“
Layla, is that you?”
someone called.

I turned to find Ethel, my classmate
Summer’s mother, crossing the cemetery. She was carrying a basket.
Inside I saw she had stashed a small shovel and gloves.

I rose, wiping my hands on my jeans.
“Hey Ethel,” I called and walked to join her.

She mopped sweat from her brow. “How
long you in town for?”

“
Not sure,
actually.”

“
I’ll tell Summer you’re
home. How is Grandma Petrovich?”

Indeed, how was she? “About the
same.”

Ethel smiled knowingly. How many times
had Ethel sat across the kitchen table from my grandma to hear
advice from the spirits? “Well, your Grandma always tells it like
it is, but I sure was glad she was there when your mother ran off.
You ever hear anything from her?”

I shook my head. “For all I know she’s
dead.”

Ethel sighed. “That is a pity. She’d
be really proud of you, honey. You had a rough start, but you sure
made good out of it. Of course you were always the smartest child I
ever saw. No one was surprised when you got that scholarship, but I
think most people worried that Campbell boy would--”

“
Planting flowers on
Phillips’ grave?” I interrupted. Ethel’s husband had died the year
Summer and I were juniors.

We looked across the graveyard
together. “Oh, yes, every fall I plant chrysanthemums,” Ethel said.
“Seems like they’ve buried a lot of folks the last couple of
weeks,” she added and pointed to some freshly dug
graves.

We turned and walked back toward the
street.

“
Some kind of bad flu
going around,” Ethel said as we walked by one of the fresh graves.
“We lost old Mrs. Winchester,” she said, pointing to the grave
nearest us. “You know she had a green burial? They dropped her in
the ground wrapped in nothing but a light blue shroud. Oddest
thing. ”

We stared down at her
grave.

“
I loved her oatmeal
cookies,” I said.

Ethel looked questioningly at
me.

The soil stirred.

“
Watch yourself, Layla.
The earth is still settling,” Ethel said, pulling me back and
looping her arm in mine.

I walked Ethel to her car. She opened
the trunk and dropped the basket inside. She then turned and hugged
me. “Don’t be a stranger, honey. Come by and see us,” she said,
squeezing my chin, and then got into her car. With a wave, she
drove off.

I gazed toward the graveyard. Mrs.
Winchester had been the town librarian. I used to sit in the back
of the library and hide from my mother, hide from whatever man
she’d dragged home that week, hide from the chaos of our house.
Mrs. Winchester would give me homemade oatmeal cookies and would
lie to my mother when she came looking for me. Mrs. Winchester
would wait for my grandmother to turn up. From time to time I still
craved those cookies. As I slid back into my SUV, I made a mental
note to pick up some flowers for Mrs. Winchester too.

When I got back to the cabin it took
nearly an hour to unload all of Grandma’s supplies. By the time I
had finished, Grandma returned from her walk.

“
Ah, Layla, my good girl.
Thank you so much,” Grandma said and clasped her hands
together.

I noticed she was carrying her herb
satchel. “Harvesting, Grandma?”

She laughed. There was a hard edge to
it. “Oh, yes, it is definitely harvest season. Come. Now we go in
and get everything ready.”

“
Ready for
what?”

“
Ehh, you’ll see. Come
now, Layla.”

That night Grandma and I turned the
house upside down. Grandma must have tossed forty years of junk,
knick-knacks, and all of the other useless things a person collects
over a life-time. In their place she stocked the cupboards with
supplies. I must have made 10 trips to the dumpster at the end of
Fox Hollow Road. No matter how many times or ways I asked why she
had all that stuff or why she was throwing everything away or why
she had called me or what was wrong, all Grandma would say is
“you’ll see.” Thinking of all the possible answers she could have
given, that one seemed the worst.