CHAPTER ONE

A Crow in the Distance

It didn’t happen all at once. One day, there was a single strand of red hair on my head. The next year, I was a redhead. Now I’d be surprised if I unearthed a brown hair among the rest of them, fighting off the wave all alone. Some days, I’m in awe of how time flies and how I’m just here to watch it. I hit the snooze button five times that morning. I didn’t have any time left but for a cursory glance in the mirror, and the redhead glancing back.

I did catch the news on my way out the door, heading to work. There was a death in some circus act in Tucson, Arizona. A trapeze artist fell to the floor of the arena, unfettered when her harness broke. I wondered if state or federal agencies had the right to regulate circus acts, but perhaps that’s why the harness was there in the first place. It just didn’t work. She was the first trapeze artist to go this year, but won’t be the last. Hearing that story somehow brought me relief. At least someone died doing what they loved, and more will follow. Not too many get that luxury. Not too many in my family get that luxury.

I have an online genealogy account that can trace my lineage about seven generations back before things get murky. It’s a shame I never use it - I’ve never gotten the willpower to cancel the subscription. Even so, the stories I’ve been told of the Heyward men can be verified there in the form of passports and photo IDs, badges and licenses. Snippets of time and space pieced together by a convenient annual fee. Papa Heyward was a redhead.

I was told Papa Heyward, my maternal grandfather, worked in a coal mine. His virtues, stoicism and hard work were extolled well before I started to give a shit about my bloodline and well before I started to see myself in anyone related to me. Anyway, it’s all true. Black lung finally brought him down, and the coughing fits he had in hospice care weren’t just an act. He was 63 then, and I was twelve. I used to roll my eyes and jump from my seat beside him to avoid getting whatever I thought he had. I regret that now, even though that’d sometimes bring a chuckle out of him. From time to time, he’d show the vestiges of life he had left.

Papa Heyward didn’t die doing what he loved. In his youth, he’d spend weekends riding motorcycles down to the coast of the Carolinas, drawing in the salty atmosphere through his nosehair. That’s what he loved. But it was more than a bike - it was the freedom it entailed. He would clench the handlebars so hard his veins and tendons would pop about a good half-inch from the bone. He wore his skin raw getting his bike into prime condition once summer rolled around - bikini season. That’s how he met his first wife, my grandmother.

She was a bit of a tomboy and had a fascination with bikes that eroded once she fell to the asphalt for the first time, about a week into dating. That’s how my grandparents fell in love: bonding over a mutual hobby. Every summer thereafter, Papa Heyward would carry on that tradition: riding down to the beach; ogling the bikini girls; giving impromptu motorcycle lessons. That’s how my grandparents fell out of love. Ten years in, my grandmother caught on when Papa came home with shorter nosehair. Nobody could’ve made him trim that mess. One question led to another, then another. Suspicion begets itself. That’s how the truth comes out. Now, our family tree has grown hard to sort. Branches sprout and I never get the call to hear about it. I guess that’s what a genealogy account is good for.

Papa Heyward didn’t die doing what he loved. If that were true, he would’ve perished on that bike after his first big accident. When my grandparents were still married, he took a spill on the interstate halfway from his home in Mount Lebanon and the state border with West Virginia. He was on his way to pick up some parts from a buddy, an old friend from the coal mine. He gashed his leg so bad he almost had it amputated. Doctors rushed to conclusions, thinking there’s no way his leg could be salvaged. He spent months learning to walk like normal again, draining and re-dressing the wounds along the way. He’d show me the pictures of his leg, taken well before the seeping wounds gave way to permanent scars and cautionary tales. The pictures hurt just to hold.

The cautionary tale doesn’t lie in the danger of riding motorcycles. Papa Heyward was bound to crash sooner or later either from hubris or bad luck. The cautionary tale lies more in the reason he trekked out to West Virginia. It wasn’t just for parts. It wasn’t even for the women he could score along the way. Hell, he could’ve taken a stroll around the block to find a girl. It was for the money - the chance to save a few bucks. The money he spent on gas plus parts was still cheaper than getting the parts through a local box store, and Papa was big into saving money. The coins he stashed away in jars piled up high for such occasions. I remember the smell of that money; the smell of sweat and grime and hard work. Before I knew the value of a dollar. The rarest coins were left to me in his will - a final value of $175.48. I had them appraised at the nearest pawn shop, but held on to the Kennedy half-dollars and other coins still in circulation. Kennedy was Papa Heyward’s favorite, and I would’ve been cussed out if I was found to have sold all of them.

Everyone who wrecks has a story. Everyone who falls from a trapeze has a story. And if you give them enough time before hitting the earth, I’m sure they’d explain themselves and their choices. Most of it would amount to being taken away in the moment. I know if I had the option, I would’ve been on a motorcycle, weaving in and out of the traffic jam I found myself in that morning.

But I had been ensnared in the all-important rat race, practically choking on the exhaust seeping in through cracks in the floor of my ’98 Chevy Impala. Sitting there, going nowhere, and feeling time slip away again, I heard my alarm. Out of habit, I depressed an imagined snooze button on my dashboard. My eyes fluttered shut, and I fell asleep.

I must’ve had at least two separate dreams inside that car. In the first, I’m back in high school, but the age I am now. 28-years-old, with a piece of paper and a subject entitled "Favorite Teachers." I traverse the halls of my high school, overcrowded with other alumni tasked with the same assignment. But I’m fighting upstream. All of them move against me, impeding my path to Mr. Herrera’s English classroom. I turn sideways, hoisting the paper high in the air so it’s not snatched away or trampled on in the chaos. Over time, I take note of other instructors and jot their names down on the paper. I hit the restrooms and meander around to soak in the details. There’s rust on the water fountains, and the water still has that distinct taste of metal. There are banners above the lockers that fade and fall downward as I pass by. The school empties out as I reach Mr. Herrera’s room.

He’s alone at his desk before rows of vacant seats. His face is buried in his paperwork. He’s hunched over, appearing to jot down notes on a submitted book report. Standing over him, I nudge his shoulder, prepared to be greeted with an enthusiastic "hello" and an exchange of fond memories. But his face is blank, featureless. The notes, scribbled in red on the book report, spell out something indistinct. But I can feel a certain energy from them. They scream out for help.

In the second dream, a redheaded man is teaching me how to smoke venison in reverse. In his kitchen, he reveals a platter of muscle and organs. Though an unappetizing sight, it smells rich of hardwood and cayenne, and stimulates a hunger deep within. The man grabs hold of the platter and throws the contents out the window and into a smoker. The door to the smoker closes and latches shut. The man steps outside, opens the door, and leads a whole carcass out onto the lawn by its haunches. Smoke that had dissipated in the wind returns to the smoker and is absorbed by the hardwood settled in the bottom. The man then grabs a shovel to retrieve a mound of skin and fur buried in the lawn, and pulls the discarded skin back over the carcass like a knapsack. There, the man instructs me to pull out a lead bullet from a flap in its underside.

The sun shines bright overhead. I’m buried beneath layers of padded, insulated fabric. It’s winter, but it’s warm. The snow cracks and breaks off into the nearby creek, babbling off into other tributaries. I wonder if it’s even worth it to be out here, but the man pleads with me to be patient. We back up several paces and take cover behind a bush. The lead bullet is inserted into the chamber of my rifle and down the scope, I see the deer plain as day, coming into focus. It nuzzles its nose to the snow. It’s not going anywhere, so I pull the trigger.

The deer gallops off in shock, unscathed. I say it’s due to a glare at the other end of the scope, and await the harsh criticism with my eyes clenched.

I feel guilty untangling the mess of my dreams, but I assume it all has to do with me. About not having the balls to confront who I am - who I really am. The unanswered questions linger and don’t relent. Some people don’t even get the chance to know their lineage, so perhaps that’s why I don’t even bother. Instead, I waste time in bed, hitting the snooze button five times before I head off to work, even catching extra winks in the car.

I woke up in a hospital west of Pittsburgh later that day.

I used to think car crashes were divine - a form of poetry in a world otherwise too messy to piece together its own art. I used to think there was no better way to go than trapped in a ravaged hunk of metal, like a mangled tin of sardines that just won’t open, and cast aside by frustrated hands. I imagined myself mangled in kind, alone on a dark highway, my heart and lungs ceasing to the blood loss. It’s stupid to think of now. I must have been in a pretty dark place back then.

The immediacy of their open arms and their lips upon my forehead was a shock, more of a shock than my initial appraisal of the accident. That loud, abrupt crescendo of shattered glass and caved-in metal was to be expected when I veered off-road in the morning. In the crash, I clutched onto whatever possible: my fingers gripping the wheel; my toes curling within the confines of my sneakers. The instinct to survive is to be expected. Family dynamics are much harder to anticipate.

My grandmother, Mama Heyward, hung around well after the others had departed, and would’ve remained if permitted past visiting hours. In her company, the room grew quiet. Outside, the quickening pace of nurses, their soft-soled shoes striding over the linoleum floor. Inside, the incessant beeping of whatever was hooked up to me. We found little to talk about, little to discuss. As if any lighthearted comment would be treating the situation without its due reverence.

My grandmother bathed me and doted over me, tending to me as she would a newborn. Her hands, enveloped by a damp washcloth, took to the crevices my blood had dried and settled into. I could sense the maternal instincts bursting within her, as if this time alone would judge her worth and value. With no other duties to fulfill, no one else to care for, she deemed me worthy of her servitude.

Every night, she bid me sweet dreams with a lingering kiss on the forehead. One night, I sensed her face tighten in anguish. A teardrop dangled from the corner of her eye to be brushed off as she walked out the door. In the morning, a thermos of stale coffee sat perched on a table beside the chair she reserved. Over the course of a few hours, it would grow more hollow in sound, to be refilled when needed.

In times infrequent enough to become unpredictable, I would awake to find her in a nervous stride in the bathroom, sometimes dumping my waste into the toilet if the task were somehow neglected by the resident nurse. Other times, she tended to herself: smudging on some eye shadow or an innocuous, understated shade of lipstick. That was her style, a style I could appreciate.

With her face on, she left for the day, tending to whatever she neglected for my sake. But I still had company.

"I miss her," he says.

"I bet," I say, muttering, with part of my lunch tucked into my cheeks. "It’s a shame you missed her. She just left."

"I’ll make sure to stop in next time she’s here."

"Oh, you’re just nervous to see her again. You wouldn’t know what to say."

The observation trails off into silence, waiting for a few words to relieve us of this tense moment. There is an obstinate reluctance for us to be alone without the comfort of conversation. He speaks up.

"You know, me and her went to church most every Sunday," he says.

"Bullshit."

"No, not bullshit," he says with calm, restrained anger. "You should go to church too someday. I bet you haven’t been since you were baptized. Go and get right with God, like we all do. You don’t want to end up like that poor lion tamer in Arizona - just going like that, out of nowhere."

"I thought she was a trapeze artist," I say, choking down the final tree of broccoli. It’s steamed, unseasoned, almost uncooked. The sterile smell of vegetables remains, wafting from the table suspended over my stomach.

"You done?" he asks.

He offers to take the plate away, aware that the smell would linger. I insist it doesn’t matter. The smell dominates in or outside the vacuum of this room. It’s all we have to eat, recirculating from plate to plate. Uneaten scraps are shoveled into our face with a routine half-smile, turn, and walk away. The nurse would return later with grilled chicken and carrots, just to "switch things up."

"How do you survive in here?" he asks, standing and retrieving his coat from the vacant chair beside. It’s a rustic brown leather. Patches and scarred material adorn every square inch.

"How did you survive?" I ask.

He swings the coat around him, nailing the dismount by extending his open palm through the sleeve and adjusting the collar before zipping up. Prompted by my question, a confused look creeps over his face and fades into a look of certainty. As though he knows what I’m referring to.

"You mean after the accident? Same way you survived. It’s just our will."

"You doing okay up there?" I ask, without offering a beat of silence in-between.

"You mean in Pittsburgh? It’s nice up there," he says. "There’s plenty of good places to eat, as long as you don’t go to those Indian restaurants that are popping up. But it’s better than what you’re having. At least Indian food has flavor."

He rushes to my side for a quick embrace. There’s a hesitance. A resistance to let go, but a similar inclination not to crush me under the sheer force of his hug. Our smiles stretch wide; lips pulling taut over the gloss of enamel.

"I’ll see you tomorrow, bud," he says, donning his newsboy cap before gliding out the door.

It was good to see him again, even if he was in a hurry to leave. Every motion he made was a flourish, a drastic departure from the robotic norms of the hospital staff. I would be visited by the nurse two more times - once for dinner and again to check my catheter - before the next visitor would arrive.

"Change the channel, it’s depressing," my stepmom says.

My eyes flutter open. I feigned sleep minutes into her visit, hoping she would leave. But I relish the fast food she sneaks in for my benefit, and I don’t wish to sever the cords of our relationship so soon.

"Change the channel, dummy! I know you’re not asleep, or dead. I’m a nurse too."

"I know you’re a nurse, Gwen, you don’t need to remind me."

"Just change it, Ridley. I’m getting depressed from watching it."

"Good. Misery loves company. I’ve been depressed for a while. What do you think of all the deportations going on?"

"Turn it off!"

I lift my arm in small increments to reach the television remote before it gives way to tremors - a pitiful act to antagonize Gwen. Despite her better inclinations, she is a begrudging force for good in my otherwise middling existence. She puts up with me. But my childish exhibitions wear thin on her.

Gwen throttles off the cushions of her chair to retrieve the remote, and races through the channel guide before landing on a nondescript show of brides preparing for their "big day." A natural palate cleanser to the standard stream of news and repeat broadcasts of tragedies and controversies. Gwen returns to her seat and crosses her thin legs, lifting her right over her left. The slight, dull heel of her shoe punctuates the length of each leg.

Gwen resumes on her phone, ignoring me, ignoring the television. Perhaps she prefers television for the background noise. Something to keep her company besides me. In the waning sunlight, with the lights in the room switched off, the incandescence of Gwen’s phone illuminates her gaunt features, ravaged by an eating disorder she had overcome years prior.

"Who are you texting?" I ask, aware of the answer.

"Your dad."

"Is he on his way?" I ask.

"Yes, soon," she says, truncating the verbiage to answer two questions at once. She is accustomed to the maternal obligations of answering inquisitive children. She has three from a previous marriage, all of whom I’ve seen in faded wallet photos folded into perfect creases within her purse.

"He’ll be here soon?" I ask.

"Yes, soon. What’s wrong? Are you tired of it just being to two of us?"

I respond with a sudden tap of my finger to the tip of my nose, this time without the simulated tremors.

"I see you’ve regained your strength," she says.

I clench my teeth. "Screw you," I say under my breath.

Gwen had heard that sentiment before, spoken much louder and in situations less private. Formal dinners and family gatherings dissipated to the whim of our spats. Someone unfamiliar with our relationship would assume she’d act in an incredulous nature, shoot me a dirty look, and storm out the room. That’d be the cliche response, one she acted out before and later dropped. Our fights had grown tiresome.

"Just relax, your dad will be here soon," she says.

Her eyes dart mid-sentence in my direction, then back to her phone. Like her phone, her ways and mannerisms are all too automated. The steady breaths she draws in and out. The swing of her right leg over her left. The repeated chewing of whatever is in her mouth.

"What are you eating?" I ask.

"Nothing, I’m just chewing gum," she says.

Minutes pass. Outside, the shuffling of nurses persists. Inside, the beeping has been phased out of mind.

"Ridley, how do you get notifications on your phone for texts? I keep missing texts from your father."

"Where’d you get the gum?" I ask. Gwen turns her attention toward me and stops chewing.

"From the vending machine down the hall."

"Did you get any for me?"

"Do you want some? Here, let me get you some," she says, so insistent that she sets down her phone and reaches for her purse.

"I don’t really want any," I say. "I just wanted to know if you got some for me."

Gwen continues to rummage through her purse, a leather bag with a dozen compartments - each one designated for a purpose that is never fulfilled. All her belongings end up misplaced.

"It’s in here somewhere."

"I don’t want any, really," I say, the ichor subsiding within. There’s no stress on any particular syllable, no threat imposed upon my stepmom. I regret having asked for gum, whether I really wanted some or not.

"Here," Gwen says, drawing a stick of gum in subdued triumph from her purse. She hands it to me in one motion as she stands up from her chair, reaching a few feet in my direction, and returns to her phone.

I unwrap the stick of gum and plunge it into my mouth. My temper vanishes. The sweet coating dissolves in kind. A mass of rubber remains to chew on.

"Oh, Ridley! They’re on their way!" Gwen says, a palpable excitement leaping from her tongue.

"Who’s on their way? I don’t want to see anyone other than dad."

"Your brother and sister-in-law! She’s having contractions!"

"I thought you weren’t getting notifications?"

Breathless, she storms out of the room, retrieving what little she had set down. Her purse dangles over her shoulder, bouncing upon its strap with every hurried step.

"I guess someone will tell me the gender later on, right?" I ask, shouting into the near-vacant hallway outside.

Flower petals and cheap, dollar-store balloons wave as she passes by. Papers and sympathy cards festooned over corkboard near the door eventually resettle. One card, attached by a loose pushpin, descends to the floor, gliding within an arm’s reach of my bedside. On the card’s face, a dove flies over a tranquil scene of calm blue water toward a shore in the distance. The sun hovers overhead, tinting the skies with a gentle hue of orange. The scene’s composition is impeccable, each element weaving together with precision from my vantage point.

I focus on an olive branch secured in the dove’s beak; its earthy tones contrasting with the more muted colors surrounding it. As if called upon by that image, I reach out to the card, brushing intravenous tubes and other medical devices aside. I shuffle to the edge of my bed and in that precarious state, I sense blood flow recirculating. Muscles and tendons that have not been used for days stretch to their limits. In the midst of that, adrenaline supplies another extra inch worth of reach at my disposal. I secure the card in my grasp and return to the center of the bed, sinking deep into the impression I’ve made. I lift the card to view the contents within.

"Thinking of you," the card reads on the interior. A name and salutation are scrawled in ink below, just within the embroidered ridges:

"Wishing you well - your favorite English teacher, Mr. Herrera! PS let’s get in touch," it reads, before offering a phone number.

The area code is unfamiliar, and I retrieve my phone to search it. 727. Port Richey, Florida.

I set the phone down and resolve to get in touch later - that is, if I can bear the thought. Between us, there are countless memories forgotten to time. I imagine the scenario: a warm greeting; a moment’s worth of silence; a struggle to recall our mutual appreciation for Steinbeck and Faulkner, and other landmark 20th century American authors. Our admiration for the stark, depressive American landscape circa 1930. Then, more silence.

"How’s Florida?" I’d ask. Such a question has an obvious answer.

"Good," he’d say. It’s natural to admire Florida for its pleasant climate and perceived livability. It’s not a question worth seeking an answer to.

"How’s the weather?"

"Right now, it’s good. Good enough considering it’s hurricane season."

I imagine he had grown tired of teaching up north, and went down South to teach a different population and live out the rest of his years in relative solitude. Far away from the ungrateful lot that occupied his classes with slouched posture and wavering attention. But perhaps he misses us. Perhaps that’s why he’s contacted me through the one means he still finds effectual. We would just need a little spark for the conversation to unfurl with abandon, like the old days.

I can hear his voice now. It’s imbued with a slight Mexican accent, one that finds its home much closer to the equator. I can hear his recounting of the low marks I received for half-assed stories, my recounting of the high marks he awarded for when I finally found my groove. The glint of pride in my eyes as a student, and a glint of fulfillment in his - as if he finally found the intrinsic pleasure of teaching after so many years.

I wormed my way into his good graces to become his adoring pupil. And he became the mentor, as quick to provide criticism for my written work as he was to shelter me from bullies and resentful peers. As quick to chastise me before the rest of the class if I spoke out of turn as he was to offer thoughtful advice. And not just advice pertaining to grammar and syntax. As I approached the legal age to find work, he provided me with a suggestion: Hynoski Farms.

"But that’s where all the hillbillies work," I say.

Class had been dismissed. The ten minutes offered between classes elapse as other students fill the room. Mr. Herrera and I are on opposite sides of a chemistry table re-purposed into a desk. He’s tending to the tattered bindings of a paperback; adhering its pages so it doesn’t decompose in the hands of the next reader.

"Hillbillies, huh?" he says, mindful not to offend the self-proclaimed hillbillies who had composed our school with some prominence.

"Hillbillies take all the credit," he says, spirited. "Living it up and riding their monster trucks on the farmhand’s dime. Immigrant farmhands do all the work, Ridley."

I’m unsure if the observation is meant to be poetic and profound, or if he’s just mistaken about the subject. Or if he’s bringing levity into the conversation. No matter, I think. I need a job.

"Well, I do need a ’monster truck.’ They don’t pay for themselves. I’ll give it a look."

"My family came up through there," he says, just before I rise from my molded plastic chair.

His eyes lift from the paperback over wide-rimmed spectacles. His hands fidget and spasm, rubbing excess glue from his fingertips.

"Your family worked there?" I ask.

"What, you think my family started out teaching English? No, actually we started out teaching Spanish and just worked our way up. We never came up through the farm. We find such work, uh... peasant-like."

I nod.

"I’m joking," he says.

"Oh..."

"You’ll learn a lot there," he says, continuing. "About how things really work."

"And how do they really work?" I ask.

"Well, you’ll find out, won’t you? Nothing in this country is really as it seems, Ridley. In fact, you should write a report on that."

The commentary echoes, popping up whenever I think I finally have things sorted out. As a student, the impression I had of America was formed from the repetition of pledging allegiance - solemn oaths of fidelity to the land we call home. And formed at home by the willful obedience to laws and the drive to acquire. I remember the look in Papa Heyward’s eyes every time he rode that motorcycle, every time he modified it to his whim, diverting his funds from a greater purpose. I wanted to acquire things with the same voracity and appetite.

Prior to my work on Hynoski Farms, I was never questioning. But I was wondering. Wondering if the promise of America applied to everyone, even those less privileged in lands beyond our shores. Wondering if the words stamped onto a colossus in New York were genuine, or a guise to lure in the desperate working class.

That spark of wonder bloomed on Hynoski Farms, and was poised to shatter my preconceptions of America in a wave of disenchantment.

Among my greatest faults as a teenager was my apprehension. My pensiveness. My lack of trust in others. There had been times - times I was both destitute and self-sufficient - when a stranger’s hand offered itself from the unknown. Every time, I brushed it back to the vast expanse, favoring what little I had to depend on. I did this not as a brag. It was not out of arrogance, just the sheer confidence in my own abilities that I could make it on my own. I learned well on the farm how little those around me could be relied upon. Too often, a harvest fell short of expectations, not through act of God, but through lack of hard work. Too often, a primrose patch lay un-trimmed, loose petals fluttering to the ground to be trampled on and forgotten. If things were to be left as they were, the blame would fall square on my doorstep. At least that’s how it seemed.

On the farm, there are colloquialisms that drift into monotony. So much so, they lose their charm and whatever pleasant aesthetics secure it to memory in the first place. Either that, or what relevance they have is lost on subsequent generations. There are phrases testament to a time forgotten, shoehorned into modern discussion out of obligation. Lest we forget who came before us. Regardless:

"You either live to work, or work to live." It sticks with me.

There was to be no hesitation the day I drove out to Hynoski Farms to find work. The suggestion from Mr. Herrera fermented into action, but I was not alone. What my classmates did with their day, though up to their own volition, would determine their futures. Some remained outside the entrance to the market, loose gravel shuffling beneath their feet, while others ventured inside to find work - or what little passed for work. I for one acclimated well to the cash register.

Blessed with a mind for simple equations, I could deduce the price of any produce based on its size and often land within a nickel of the correct total. Whenever the cash register malfunctioned - a common occurrence - I turned to pen and paper to manage transactions and ensure the proper change was handed out. Such as things go, I gained enough esteem from Mr. Hynoski to assume the role of shift manager. The time that elapsed from first paycheck to first promotion was a mere season - three months and nine days. We had yet to turnover our produce to reflect the inherent change from Spring to Summer. Most of the blueberries remained ripening in the bushes, miles away, past rolling hills where trodden paths vanish into fields unknown to my sight.

It was on the day of my promotion Mr. Hynoski invited me to ride shotgun in his immaculate ’58 pickup upon the main artery into those very fields. The dust rises in plumes behind us, scattering the dead earth onto rows of apple orchards and cornstalks - bearing our foremost popular kinds of produce. The sun’s rays glean off every surface to reflect the majesty of God’s creation, the untamed land now harnessed and driven by his whim. Glances into his side mirror yield to Mr. Hynoski a pleasant recollection of how the farm came into his possession, and how pleased he is to know it will be passed on.

"You know, not everyone knows the value of hard work," he says.

"Well," I say, a tad stifled, but still sure of my words. "I was told that you either live to work, or you work to live."

"That’s very true," he says.

The occasion was rare when he’d offer any sort of praise or recognition. To him, it was a gesture of unwarranted affection, and I imagine those that had come before me had spurned him one too many times.

"That’s as true a phrase that’s ever been coined," he says, fiddling with a hand craned over his breast pocket.

He retrieves a pouch of snuff and indicates for me to indulge in a pinch. I oblige. The bitter sting subsides to a subtle freshness, a flavor too pungent to be described by my unversed palate.

"See this," he says, motioning with a stubby finger out the window to the laborers in the fields, all of them dressed to a minimum - though not to disgrace their boss or God. They assemble in lines, each one with a role interdependent of the other. Buckets of produce are gathered and passed from one to the next and set in the bed of a pickup. I take a brief excursion in my mind and ponder upon the nature of this business. But the question, like the tobacco, remains tucked inside my lips.

"For them, Sunday is for rest. But by God, every other second is for work."

"Where are they from?" I ask.

"Mexico, most of ’em."

"Any come from Venezuela? Honduras, maybe?"

"Well, maybe. But they’re all Mexican to me."

We ride on, laborers dotting the landscape with arms outstretched, hands intent on their work. The sheer number is baffling to me given the swath of land we cover - perhaps one for every bush, every tree, every stalk. Wasted produce tumbles and rolls onto our path to be trod into the ground. Peach pits and seeds are split open by weathered tires. In the bustle of menial labor, in the sight of sweat absorbed into tattered clothing, and in the windswept fields that seem to dance for his ingenuity, Mr. Hynoski parts his lips and smiles. The smile creeps upward upon his face, piercing through a dense, manicured mustache and stopping just short of his eyes. They remain oval, like figs, wrinkled around the edges, nestled deep in their sockets. The expression of a man content with a vision that had become all too real. He prefers the image of a quaint farmland toiled over by calloused hands. Determination over luck. But the hands are not his own. Sometimes, he told me, he wished to be back in the fields, his father over his shoulder, a menacing crow in the distance just to keep him on his toes.

Mr. Hynoski’s expression turns from relaxed to taut. In those eyes that reflected such an acute longing, his pupils dilate to accommodate the lack of light in a dense, uncleared wood. The canopy above shields us from the sunlight. Songbirds dart in various directions like sparks ignited from the strike of a hammer. And as we encroach upon this new territory, careening around sharp bends carved into the malleable ground, Mr. Hynoski’s grip on the steering wheel becomes tense.

The path declines in increments to a shallow stream. Mr. Hynoski settles beside the embankment and steps a foot out from the truck. The machinations of the vehicle - the intense, incessant roar of gears and metal - subsides. As I in turn step out to greet the land beneath our feet, the understated babbling of the stream flutters to my ears. As I approach, it matches the picture in my mind: a clear sheet of glass poured onto a path of smoothed pebbles and rock. Like a miniature landscape crafted in a hobby shop expanded to a human scale. I squat down to the crest of the stream. Bugs scatter from my presence, some toward the bushes and others launching toward the water, their deft legs propelling them over the surface.

"You see that up there?" Mr. Hynoski asks, pointing up toward the opposite embankment, a sheer cliff rising above our heads about ten feet.

In the distance, a century-old church stands masked and obscured by patches of trees rotting on the cliff’s edge. Flakes of white paint adorn the exterior, cracking and peeling from steeple to foundation. An ornate bell suspends upon chains in the steeple, rocking loose in the slight breeze of the mid-afternoon, indicating it no longer rings.

"Is that their church?" I ask.

"It is. We’ve had about three generations of Herreras come through this farm. Many have been christened there. Don’t you have a teacher at your high school by the name of Herrera?"

"I do," I say. "The Mexican teacher who teaches English. We all think that’s weird. But he’s my favorite."

"That’s Humberto. His father, Octavio, was a bright son-of-a-gun too. He helped give Humberto a better life, for sure. I’m proud of them."

Mr. Hynoski turns to his truck and unsheathes the cover over the flatbed to reveal two bundles of flowers: an assortment of white lilies and gardenias. A general variety of flowers we sell at this time of year, stocked in bunches in the market. Mr. Hynoski retrieves the bundles, one in each hand, and motions for me to take one.

"Here, Ridley. Follow me up to the church," he said.

Mr. Hynoski leads the way, stepping foot into the stream with a pair of loose blue jeans cuffed up to the midpoint of his calves. Solid masses of rock mark out a sure path to the opposite side.

I follow behind, prepared to offer a hand to steady Mr. Hynoski’s balance if a rock were to come loose or the flow of the stream were to slip us up. Once across, we stroll along the opposite embankment to a gradual incline, and a path leading to the church.

"Thanks for bringing me out here," I say, with an approach both pensive and assertive.

"Don’t mention it," Mr. Hynoski says. "Mr. Herrera comes in the market every once in a while and asks for you. You miss him each time. He must like you."

As we approach the church, Mr. Hynoski’s arms bristle against the dangling, overgrown foliage. A large tree limb, weighed down and rotten with moisture and fungus, impedes our path. We squat over opposite ends of the limb and lift it from the ground. Pill bugs writhe and scuttle within the scar the limb had impressed in the earth. We carry it to the side of the path and set it down.

"Been a while since I’ve been here, Ridley. It’s long overdue."

"Do any of your workers come around here anymore?"

"No, not much anymore," Mr. Hynoski says, lamenting, brushing dirt from his hands. "Once they learn better English, they head to other churches."

We continue. The path runs to the entrance, a wide set of doors shielded by an awning overhead. It provides ample shade to cool us off for a moment. Mr. Hynoski removes his cap to wipe the excess sweat from his brow.

"Are we going in?" I ask.

"We can’t. I don’t even know what happened to the key. Where we want to go is around back."

Mr. Hynoski starts off, his legs straining to thrust forward with each step. His feeble joints seem on the cusp of failure. I rush to his side, propping him up with an arm around his back.

"You’re too kind, Ridley. You’re an old soul for sure."

"Will you be alright?"

"I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment once we get there."

As we approach the opposite side of the church, each step draining what was left of Mr. Hynoski, a picket fence looms out from the corner. Fenceposts mirror the rest of the church’s exterior: exposed wood and flakes of white paint turning beige in the sunlight. A calculated, man-made structure failing in the weakened soil. A gentle breeze greets us. The gate in the fence blows open and beckons us onward.

Inside the fence, rows of nondescript headstones mark twenty or so graves. We skirt each one. The masses of dirt and grass invite us to fall in if we are careless enough to trod over them. Mr. Hynoski’s spirit rises in the sobering scene, even as his body threatens to fail him. He points to a headstone in the back row, one more well-tended to and cared for than the others.

"That’s the one," he says. He leaves my side to stand before the grave. He removes his cap and folds his hands in respect.

"That’s Octavio," he says.

While other names have faded and become obscured by moss, "Octavio Herrera" is legible upon the headstone. It’s a basic font and format - an uninspired design that seems unworthy of attentiveness and care. But as I’ve been reminded of and no longer doubt, the man buried here earned some significance in the life of Mr. Hynoski.

"That man," he says, fidgeting his hands over the brim of his cap. He gestures to the headstone as he ponders the next few words, then turns his head to face me.

"That man was the first Mexican I’ve ever known to have some real ambition. He picked up the language, he minded the store, he worked his way up. I thought of him as a vice president, if you will. Sometimes, I thought of him as a son."

I bite my tongue, but I find his homespun tendencies more endearing than outright demeaning. Mr. Hynoski is meant to be cloistered in the realm of his creation. A man as white as the lilies and gardenias plucked from his own garden. He sets his bundle down to the foot of the headstone. I follow his example in robotic automation.

The story of the Herrera family is articulated, brought forth into the light from a shroud of mystery and wonder. I grant that there are details left to be discovered. Patches meant to be filled in. But for now, I’m satisfied. The two of us gaze upon the headstone, a disparate pair united by our idolatry. We return to the truck and resume our work in the shop, bidding farewell at night.

Mr. Hynoski’s house sits on the crest of a distant hill, settled further back into the farmland than the church, but made more accessible by a paved road. He lived alone in that house. His wife died of a stroke years prior, his kids departing to separate vocations well before.

That night, he sat down to dinner, stuffed himself with an assortment of farm specialties, and retired to bed upon a mattress of down feathers and cotton. Just as he would every night.

My faith in America - prodded and probed by relentless questioning - was not shattered, but instead restored. For a time, I learned to trust in humanity and the binding principles within us all.

;>;>;>;