Heartland

By Allen Renfro

Why is the cat named after Aunt Loretta?

It’s just one of the many questions I never thought I’d ask in my lifetime. I mean, who has to ask why a cat is named after your aunt? It’s not something that normally comes up in dinner conversation. Of course, I never imagined I’d have to move back home to Fairview either. But sometimes you don’t have a choice. Sometimes life chooses for you. Unemployed and nearly broke, home is the only logical decision I could make, especially when my four-year-old son is counting on me.

My name is Jake and, besides being unemployed and nearly broke, I’m keeping a secret. Well, to be honest, I think I’m keeping a secret. I’ve lived in the big city for nearly ten years and the thought of moving back to a small farm town like Fairview feels like punishment. But to my surprise, it’s just the opposite. It turns out to be the best thing that's ever happened to me...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Renfro
• Release date: Mar 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370583775

Allen Renfro

Allen Renfro is a native of Tennessee and a graduate of Tusculum College. A published poet and artist in the zine culture of the 1990s he considers himself a "fringe" artist. He is an admitted history buff, horror movie watcher and reader of fiction. He is the author of eleven novels.

Book preview

HEARTLAND

By

Allen Renfro

Copyright © 2017 by Allen Renfro

ARMSlength Publishing Ltd.

Cover Art: LLPix Photography

Editing and Formatting: Beth Lynne, BZHercules.com

Smashwords Edition

Ebook Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please visit your preferred ebook distributor and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Heartland is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

www.allenrenfro.com

Adult Fiction Novels by Allen Renfro

Feels Like Friday

The Raised

Snap

The Falling

Bridge Water

Ambiguity

Rogue

Weeds in the Sidewalk

Young Adult Novels by Allen Renfro

Superstitious

Available Everywhere in All Formats

Chapter One

Daddy, I gotta pee.

I look through the rearview mirror at my son secure in his car seat, surrounded by our suitcases and his toys. His beautiful blue eyes are staring back at me with all the innocence of the world. He offers me a funny smile and I smile back.

Okay, I reply. We'll stop at the next place.

I have to admit that my legs are growing tired. We've already been driving five hours with about a half an hour to go. The winding highway cuts through hills and valleys of endless trees, which become boring despite their beauty. And if I'm being totally honest, I'm not exactly excited about our destination.

How much farther is it to Grandma's? he asks, his eyes turning back to stare out the window at the blur of pines and cedars whizzing by.

About thirty miles, I reply, my eyes focused on the winding road in front of us, the snake-like twists and turns cutting through the dense green forest.

It's a long way, he says.

I smile. Yeah, it is.

The trees are pretty, he says.

Yeah, they are.

Everything's green.

Yeah. I smile because he's right. The lush forest around us gives the air a greenish glow.

The forest surrenders to fields of corn and cattle, and to a rustic wood sign illuminated in bright sunshine that reads Welcome to Fairview. Finally, we see the first hints of civilization we've seen in a while. I turn the steering wheel of my ancient hatchback to the right at the first red light and pull the car into the shade of an awning in front of Gertrude's Quick Mart and Bait & Tackle Shop… and DVD Rentals.

Trent is wrestling with his car seat before I have my seatbelt unfastened. I open the door to the backseat and maneuver myself around the suitcases and his toys, being particularly careful with Toby the turtle, to help him out of his car seat. I lift him into my arms with a grunt.

Hurry, Daddy, I gotta go!

We make a quick dash into the store. An old bell jingles as I push the door open to a store empty of any customers. Glancing around past aisles of snacks and a wall of refrigerated coolers filled with drinks, I finally see the sign on the wall pointing the direction to the restrooms. I pay no attention to the elderly lady behind the counter, who is staring at us as we rush into the men's room. I hurry Trent into the stall so he can pee.

This place smells funny, he says loudly over the trickling sound of his pee.

Standing outside the stall and leaning against the door, I have to agree. I think that might be bait that we're smelling.

Do they keep it in the bathroom?

I think so, I reply. Looking around the bathroom, I see it's clean and modern. It shouldn't smell like dead fish.

I hear the flush of the toilet and the loud smack of the seat coming down.

All done?

All done, he replies, pushing open the stall door.

Let's get your hands washed. I lift him up and walk over to the sink. I hold him so that he can wash his hands with soap and so he can reach over for a paper towel by himself. When I place him down on the floor, he tosses the wadded paper towel into the waste basket and lets me see that his hands are clean.

He takes my hand as we walk back out to the store where the elderly woman behind the counter is staring at us with a goofy grin on her face.

I look down at Trent. Want something to drink? Maybe some candy?

Nah, I'm good, he says.

Jake Crosse, is that really you? she asks.

I feel Trent's hand squeeze mine a little tighter as the old woman stares at us both. Her hair is completely gray and pulled back into a ponytail at the back of her head; the red-framed glasses she's wearing have to be from the seventies.

Uh, yes, I'm Jake, I reply, hating that I don't have a clue who she is.

Lord, son, I think the last time I saw you was at your father's funeral. She grins with wrinkles around her mouth that tell me she's had a cigarette between her lips probably since the day she was born. You haven't changed a bit.

Thank you, I reply, not knowing what in the world to say.

And who is this? she asks, leaning over the counter for a closer look.

Uh, this is my son, Trent. I smile.

You look just like your dad, she says with a wink and a giggle that makes Trent smile. It makes me smile just hearing her say that. Being as beautiful as my son is something I'm very proud of.

Thank you, I reply, but I don't know what to say beyond that. I look down to Trent. You sure you don't want something to drink?

Chocolate milk? he says with an inflection as if he's guessing an answer on a game show.

I nod. Okay, let's get some.

I guide Trent down a short aisle to the coolers with the drinks and we scour the shelves for a small carton of chocolate milk.

You don't remember me, do you? she calls out, still safely behind the counter, near the cash register, peering around the lottery tickets.

Then it hits me who she could be. You're Gertrude, aren't you?

Gertrude? she scoffs in horror. She's been dead for years.

I feel the need to shove both my feet into my mouth.

Sorry, I mumble as I help Trent pull open the glass door and retrieve a small carton of chocolate milk for him. I didn't think it was a bad guess, seeing as the store is named Gertrude's and she looks like she could be a Gertrude.

I'm Agnes, she says.

I still don't have a clue.

Agnes Jarvis, she says in a way that tells me I'm stupid for not knowing who she is. Austin's mother.

Oh, I reply, expressing more surprise than I should, probably because I should have remembered her.

My God, I didn't think I'd changed that much in ten years, she says. It's been ten years since you graduated high school, hasn't it? I don't look that old, do I?

Uh yeah, I reply, placing the carton of chocolate milk on the counter.

I look that old? she asks in shock at my crudeness.

No, no, no, ma'am, I stutter, trying to keep from sinking deeper into the pit that I've dug for myself. I mean, it's been ten years since we graduated high school.

Oh, thank God; I misunderstood you, she says with relief as she rings up the total on the cash register and the color in her face fades from fire red to pink. One ninety-seven.

I wrestle a couple of dollars from my wallet and hand them to her, afraid to see how few dollar bills I have left.

Austin is gonna be so excited that you're back, she says, counting out three pennies and handing them to me. You all were so close back then.

I stare at her in disbelief. How could she know that I'm back?

Sensing my surprise, she clarifies, Your mom told me you were moving back home.

That figures.

You know Grandma? Trent asks, jarring me from my surprise.

I sure do, young man, she replies. I swear you're cute as a button.

I take the carton of chocolate milk, open it carefully, and hand it down to Trent, who quickly takes a big sip of it, giving him a milk mustache.

Thank you, I say and hustle Trent toward the door.

You should give Austin a call, she says. I know he'd love to see you.

I'll do that, I reply, pushing open the door and hustling Trent toward the car, the sounds of cars rushing by on the road and the heat of the summer day more inviting than conversation with Agnes Jarvis.

I can give you his number, she calls out, but I'm determined to get out of there.

I offer her a wave as the door closes, and through the filter of the panes of glass, I smile. I take the carton of chocolate milk from Trent and place it on the roof of the car as I lift him back into his car seat and fasten him in, making sure Toby the turtle is within his reach.

Daddy, are you okay? he asks.

I hand him the carton of milk from off the roof of the car and close the door.

Yeah, why? I ask as I slide behind the steering wheel, close my door, and start the engine.

You're acting funny.

I look at him again through the rearview mirror and smile in admiration. So young and so smart.

I'm okay, I reply as I ease the car back onto the highway, which happens to also be Main Street.

Fairview. My hometown, population not very many, is a land that time forgot. A place that's ten miles from nowhere, my dad used to say. People around here say it's country living at its finest unless you're like me and had only one goal after graduating high school and that was to escape the place I deemed the biggest sinkhole in the world.

Is this where we're gonna live? Trent asks.

Yep, this is it, I reply. Well, we're staying with your grandma on the farm.

We drive through town, past a movie theater that probably is registered as an historical landmark. I glance through Olsen's Barber Shop window and Mr. Olsen is hard at work cutting a man's hair with a half dozen more men waiting for their turn. The weary old courthouse with tall white columns needs painting and the Piggly Wiggly supermarket, fondly nicknamed The Pig, where, based on the nearly full parking lot, most of the town's population seems to be on a Friday afternoon. We drive under a banner that's written in orange letters and decorated with autumn leaves announcing Fairview's Fall Festival. It stretches high across Main Street almost like a purposeful reminder of just one more thing that I left behind.

With all kinds of animals? he says with an excitement that's like being told he's going to the circus. He was only an infant the last time we were here for Dad's funeral. He's just now old enough to understand.

Yeah, I reply, trying to match Trent's excitement. With cows, chickens, horses, pigs, and probably a dog.

A dog? he says. We're gonna have a dog?

Yeah, I reply, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. And who knows what else.

We pass through all seven traffic lights, the savory scent of hamburgers and fries wafting from the Country Inn Restaurant making my stomach growl. Teenagers stand outside their hangout known as the Shake Shack just like I did with my friends back in the day, under the shade of a red and white striped awning. Every turn, every curve in the road I remember from the past. People walking along narrow tree-lined sidewalks offer us a friendly wave, the sounds of lawnmowers buzzing. We pass the high school and the elementary school where children are playing in the playground. I feel my heart linger there as we pass by, the days when life was simple, when the only worries were math tests and homecoming dances and having the coolest picture for the yearbook.

A tractor towing a rickety wood wagon stacked with bales of hay lumbers down the road in front of us like a drowsy cow. Trent takes it all in stride as he sips from his carton of chocolate milk. His curiosity is piqued, his eyes twinkling with excitement as he looks from window to window with the wonder that only a child has. His excitement helps to ease the ache in my heart. He calms the fear that I'm taking him away from a better life that we could have had in the city. But life is like that sometimes. Sometimes life makes the choice for you.

I'm finally able to pass the tractor, whose driver, an old man in overalls and John Deere cap, waves to us as we pass. The highway stretches along the northern shore of Watts Lake. The lapping waves smack against rocks at the edge of the road, the sunlight creating diamond reflections in the water. I roll down our windows with a push of a button on my door, allowing the cool breeze flowing across the lake to fill the car. Trent laughs as the wind tosses his dark hair around his head, his eyes squinting with the rush of wind.

Look, Daddy! he nearly squeals in excitement, pointing at a sailboat in the distance drifting carelessly along the water, its large white sail billowing in the wind.

I forgot how beautiful my hometown is, but I can't forget that the natural beauty is the perfect disguise to the ugly underneath, to the hypocrisy of so many people that live here. But I can't deny the wonder and joy in my son's eyes as he watches the sailboat drift through the water past men standing in boats, casting their lines from fishing poles, hoping to catch the one that got away.

It's almost a disappointment when the lake disappears from sight and we're back to being surrounded by fields of corn and cows.

Is it much farther? Trent asks with a bit of a yawn.

Well, son, we're actually here, I say as I turn the steering wheel to the right and the car thumps onto a narrow gravel road through an open gate with a fancy iron banner overhead that reads Crosse Creek Farm. The driveway of my childhood home.

The long driveway carves a straight line between fields of corn. Rolling plumes follow us, covering the cornstalks with a thin layer of dust. My heart begins to race as the house I grew up in finally appears.

Surrounded by lush maple trees, the two-story house has been in my family for generations. The rocking chairs and swing on the front porch are like old friends waiting for me to visit with them. It's a Victorian-style home with tall windows and green shutters that match the green-shingled roof. I'd always thought it was the prettiest house in Fairview, even though it's old and weary. The white-washed fences that surround the yard are still as beautiful as they were in my childhood. An old but shiny blue pickup truck, parked near the front of the house and just behind Mom's station wagon, has to be my brother Paul's.

Cows are grazing alongside the fence to our left and Trent gasps in awe of the large herd.

Look, Daddy!

Yeah, that's a lot of cows, isn't it?

When I was a kid, I would pretend the rolling hills around our farm were mountains to be conquered; the endless fields made me feel like a prince surveying his kingdom. Summers were spent swimming in our pond with water so clear it seemed like it was invisible and building dams in a creek that stretches through most of the property. Two red barns in the distance bring a smile to my face; the memories of jumping from the lofts into piles of hay, luckily never breaking a limb.

My eyes feel blurry. The memories rushing back, it's like my brain is trying to make me not feel guilty for being a failure, for coming home with my tail tucked between my legs. I pull the car behind the pickup truck and before I have my door open, Mom, aka Emma Crosse, is hurrying down the three steps of the porch to the cobblestone walkway. She has the rear passenger door open and is excavating Trent from his car seat before I can even say hi.

Trent! she says as she pulls him into her arms and spins him around in a bear hug.

Trent is a bit surprised but takes it in stride, struggling to hold on to his empty carton of chocolate milk. Hi, Grandma.

It's been years since we've seen her face to face and her dark hair already has a touch more gray than it did then. The laugh lines around her eyes are just a little deeper. I'm not used to seeing her in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, but other than that, she hasn't changed that much, not that I expected her to look completely different. She used to say that she was Kate Jackson's twin. It was years before I had the guts to ask who Kate Jackson was and she had to explain the TV show Charlie's Angels to me. When I finally saw a picture of Kate Jackson, I decided it wasn't worth the argument to tell my mom that she doesn't look that much like her.

Mom has both Trent and me wrapped in her arms with kisses on cheeks and babbling words like I'm so glad you're finally here and I was starting to get worried.

It's so good to see you, she says, the unmistakable scent of beer on her breath.

My mother's been drinking. That's something new.

We'll worry about your stuff later, she says, glancing at my elderly hatchback stuffed like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. Let me show you your rooms.

And just like that, I realize I'm like a visitor, like checking into a hotel, but the thought is fleeting as Mom's conversation gives Trent and me little time to think or say hardly anything. She sets him down on the ground and takes his hand as she leads us into the house.

Your brother Paul and the crew are sloppin' the hogs, she says as I follow her and Trent up the stairs to the front door, the creaks of the wood in the porch the same as they were when I was a kid.

What's sloppin' the hogs? Trent asks, very confused by the language.

Feeding the pigs, I say, causing him to look up over his shoulder at me, still with a bit of confusion.

We've got pigs and cows and horses and chickens, she says as she opens the door and we walk into a hallway that has a long flight of stairs leading to the second floor along the right side of the hall.

The hardwood floors, the gentle colors of the walls; everything is just as it always was. To the right through a wide entranceway is the large living room that now includes a big screen TV that doesn't really blend in with the old family photos on the walls and the rustic old furniture that must be at least twenty years old or the fireplace that kept us warm on winter nights. Dad's old recliner with his blanket still rests in the same place it always did, facing the direction of the TV and angled so Dad could look through the front windows.

To the left is the formal