Across the red water, past the roiling current and the thick outcrop of trees, was a farm. Brown, arid dirt contrasted the dark, green foliage that surrounded it. Amidst the cracked earth were rows of vegetable plots, all filled with dying sprouts. On the left side of the small farm was a dead fig tree, its white branches reaching up toward the sky like hands in prayer.
Jackson Westbrook walked out to the farm behind his house. Still in his long pajamas and nursing a cup of coffee from his favorite metal tin, he looked around at the crops scattered across his field. His brother was standing on the bank of the red river; Jackson could see him through the green corn leaves billowing in the wind. With a sigh, he marched forward.
Matthew was looking across the crimson river at the dry farm, his arms folded. A cold gust of wind rustled through the vegetation that surrounded him. He bit his bottom lip and looked down at the stalk to his right, which had been cut in half. The fresh corn Jackson had been excited to see the previous evening was gone. There were other plants that had been reaped in a similar fashion, lacking any finesse and precision. Matthew reached his hand out and touched the dead remnants of the plant as Jackson approached. Matthew acknowledged his presence with a small, side-eye glance before turning his glare back to the farm across the river.
“Crops are missin’,” Matthew said. His tone was gruff and angered.
“Looks like it,” Jackson said. He took a sip of his coffee as he reached his hand out to touch one of the harvested stalks. “Most of the crop’s still good. Won’t affect us much at all.”
“You know who lives on that farm?” Matthew asked.
Jackson furrowed his eyebrows as his eyes adjusted to the morning light. The sun had risen less than two hours ago and yet his brother was already dressed. He had even washed, which meant he had gone out of his way to boil water from the river and fill the wooden tub in the back of the house.
“What’s it to you?”
“Do you gotta give me Hell every time I ask a simple question?”
“Don’t curse. Mary’ll yell if she hears you.”
“Hell to Mary. Who’s side are you on anyway?” Matthew spat. He looked back at his brother, and Jackson saw rage flaring in his eyes. “You gonna answer my question, or you gonna stand there and sip your coffee like a damn idiot?”
“What was your question?”
“Who lives over on that farm? Are ya deaf?”
“You’re out here how often? Y’ tellin’ me you never seen someone out on his land?”
“I seen him plenty, but I don’ know who he is,” Matthew said.
Jackson took a long sip of his warm drink as another gust of wind rushed through the farm. He looked up at the sky and noticed a large group of black clouds on the horizon. They were moving toward the brothers with surprising speed.
“Looks like a storm is comin’,” Jackson said. “Never seen black clouds before. You ever seen black clouds before?”
“Sure, a thousand times,” Matthew said. “I seen black clouds all the time. Now will you answer my damn question?”
Jackson shrugged. “I think some Mexican folk live over there. Man o’ the house introduced himself as Luis. Don’t know if that’s his actual name. I got the feelin’ he didn’t like giving out his name to white folk. Can’t say I blame him either. He was leavin’ Bertha’s store – you know, she’s who we buy manure from – and somebody didn’t like him too much. Yelled at him somethin’ fierce.”
“So naturally you decide to go up to the man and make his acquaintance?”
“Precisely,” Jackson said. “But, like I mentioned, he wasn’t open to amicable conversation. Said he had to get home.”
“I bet they took the crops,” Matthew said.
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Look at their farm!” he said, jabbing his finger at the sad display across the crimson river. “I bet they snuck over here in the middle of the night, took whatever they wanted, and left before first light.”
“All for a couple ears o’ corn?”
“Yeah, for a couple ears o’ corn!” Matthew yelled. “That’ll go a long way if you use it right, and I bet that family knows how to spread their food around. Probably got used to it once that fig tree died. You see that thing?”
“Hard to miss.”
“Yeah, it really is. You know them Mexicans is dirty people. Probably poisoning the river with their filth.”
“Now that’s enough o’ that talk,” Jackson said, a disturbed visage overcoming his face. “When I spoke with Luis, if that is his real name, he was the nicest man I ever met. I swear it. I’d suspect you before I’d suspect him.”
Matthew turned to face his brother, anger flaring in his pupils like plumes of orange fire. “How dare you insinuate such a thing,” he spat. “I take offense to that. I take great offense to that!”
Jackson drained the rest of the coffee in his metal mug, spitting out the grounds that had settled in the bottom of his cup. “Yeah, yeah. You go ahead and get offended.”
“Pa says that he hears people over here all the time!” Matthew insisted. “He says he hears them creepin’ through the farm like it was their own. I bet if I went in there and ask him he’d say he heard them harvesting crops for themselves like rats.”
“Pa hears all sorts of things,” Jackson said, shaking his head. He turned to return to the house.
“Yeah, go ask him right now!” Matthew yelled. “You go ask him if anybody was in the field last night cutting down stalks and I bet he’ll say yes. I’ll bet you anything.”
“Will ya keep your voice down? You’re gonna wake my kids, idiot. Get inside before that storm hits. Gonna be a nasty one, I can feel it. Black clouds can’t mean nothin’ good.”
Jackson did not wait for his brother to say anything further. He walked up the few stairs to his porch, opened the heavy, wooden door, and entered his home.
To Jackson’s dismay his children were already awake. They were running around in their frayed pajamas. He could smell the porridge Mary was making in the kitchen. Jackson walked through the living room and passed under the archway into the dining room. He kissed his daughter, Emma, on the head as he passed the supper table, and walked into the kitchen on the right.
Mary looked up at him as he entered. Her disheveled hair was damp with sweat. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks; purple bags hung under her eyes, which were bloodshot. She blew a wisp of dark, brown hair away from her face, and Jackson leaned in to kiss her.
“You need to shave that thing,” Mary said, her eyes glancing at his sharp beard before turning back to the porridge.
“Yeah, maybe I do. There anymore o’ that coffee kickin’ around?”
Mary gestured toward the metal pot on the counter. “Get it yourself.”
Jackson walked over to the blue, floral pot. As he poured a cup he looked at his wife and her brusque beauty.
“I feel those eyes on me,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am, you do.”
“Well kindly get them on something else. Perhaps your son? Lord knows what he’s doin’. I don’t want him roughhousin’ Emma anymore. You know he’s been doin’ that?”
“I do now.”
“I know you’re in the field all day, and I know you take John with you most times, but he’s been worse than usual.”
“Must be the weather,” Jackson said. The hot air and the smell of smoldering wood in the kitchen filled his lungs as he took a sip from his fresh cup. “I saw black clouds outside. You ever see black clouds before?”
“No.”
“Yeah, me neither. Matthew said he’d seen black clouds plenty o’ times before, but I don’t know if I believe him.”
“That brother of yours is as dull as they come, Jackson,” she said. “Mean-spirited, too. Came rantin’ to me this mornin’ about how the folks across the river stole our crops.”
“Yeah, he told me that too,” Jackson said. “What can I do, though? He’s family. Pa isn’t doin’ well. He’s gonna pass any day now, and Matthew’s never had anyone to ever look after him.”
“What Matthew needs is a swift kick in the ass,” Mary said. “I’m not gonna tell you how to deal with your family business, but I wouldn’t want anybody like that in my family.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Jackson said. “Looks like it’s gonna storm, though.”
“I inferred that when you said we got black clouds rollin’ in.”
“I’ll get the horses some extra hay. Don’t know how long it’s gonna last. Hope the river don’t flood.”
“You harvestin’ crops today?”
“If I can,” Jackson said. “Don’t know when that rain is gonna hit.”
“Well you best get out o’ your pajamas and get workin’ then,” she said. “I’ve been in here slavin’ away since the break o’ dawn and you don’t hear me talkin’ ‘till the cows come home.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Jackson said. “I’m taking my coffee with me, though.”
“You take whatever you please.”
Jackson walked over to his wife. “Hey.”
Mary turned, her eyes burning with annoyance. “What?”
Jackson leaned in and kissed her on the lips. “You look gorgeous today,” he said.
Mary smiled. Even with the heat in the kitchen, he could tell the flush in her cheeks was born from love.
He took his metal mug and walked out through the kitchen archway, making his way around to the back of house where he and Mary’s bedroom was. As he turned into the hallway, at the end of which was his destination, he stopped. Outside, Matthew was yelling about the crops. Jackson couldn’t tell who he was shouting at.
He continued down the hallway and stopped at the first door on his left. With a sigh, he lifted his free hand and knocked on the wood.
“Matthew?” an old, wheezing voice called out.
“No, Pa,” Jackson said.
“Oh,” he said. “Well what you want?”
“Just checkin’ up on you. You need anything?”
“I need to go to Jesus, that’s what I need.”
“Well I can’t help with that,” Jackson said. “You need some food or somethin’? Mary’s makin’ porridge out in the kitchen.”
“Will you just come in the room so I don’t gotta listen to you yell through the door?” his father yelled.
Jackson sighed and opened the door. His nostrils were assaulted with the smell of rot and decay. Buckets with excrement and urine lined the walls of the room. The bedsheets were soaked in sweat. His father lay on the bed, his skin pallid and thin. As Jackson closed the door, his father began to cough – a breathless, hacking sound that was akin to someone clapping their wet hands together. Jackson leaned on the door and looked at his father over the brim of his coffee mug, trying to stay as far away as he could from the former patriarch of his life.
“Now, what you want?”
“I just wanted to see if you needed anything,” Jackson said. “I get worried about you sometimes.”
“You don’t get worried about me,” his father said. “Only person ‘round here who gets worried about me is Matthew. He’s a good boy. I raised him well.”
“If you want to be alone I can go, Pa,” he said. “I just wanted to check on you.”
“Yeah, go. Go be with that family of yours that forgets I exist. You know it was my birthday yesterday, right?”
“It wasn’t your birthday yesterday; your birthday is in the winter.”
“Exactly what I mean,” his father said. He let out another terrifying cough, after which he spat a glob of green phlegm out into one of the buckets by his bed. “Matthew’s the only one that cares about this place. Without him, you’d go broke. You know folks were sneakin’ around our crops last night?”
“Matthew says he thinks it was Luis across the river.”
“Who the fuck’s Luis?”
“Pa, watch your language!” Jackson admonished with shock.
“Ah, shut up. If God cared that much about swearin’ he’da taken me by now. Now answer me, who’s Luis?”
“He’s a nice Mexican man,” Jackson said. “I met him when I was in town the other day. I think he lives across the river.”
His father began to laugh. “On that barren piece-o’-shit farm? The one with the dead fig tree?”
“He’s fallen on hard times,” Jackson said. “Lord knows our yield isn’t what it was supposed to be this year. Plus we got a storm a’comin’. I saw black clouds in the sky.”
“Black clouds,” his father said, a tinge of terror in his voice. “Never means nothin’ good. And to boot we got Mexicans sneakin’ around our crop stealin’ what ain’t theirs.”
“Pa, I don’t think Luis was in our garden.”
“O’ course you don’t. You don’t care about this family at all. You’d probably be just as happy if they came and took all our food and we starved to death in this sad excuse for a home.”
“You got anythin’ else you wanna yell at me before I leave? My coffee’s gettin’ cold and I have to tend to my children.”
“You know the problem with you, Jackson? When I grew up, my Pappy didn’t take kind to people stealin’ anythin’ from us. If he caught you on his property without his permission he shot you dead, no questions. He taught me hard work, how to tend field, how to defend your land whenever a savage –”
“You make me sick, Pa,” Jackson said as anger rose in his gut. “I brought you and Matthew in out o’ the goodness of my heart when you went sick. I went out o’ my way to make you feel comfortable, even though all you’ve done is mock the home I built with my own two hands and act as though I’m not your boy. Now I need you ta hear somethin’, and I need you to listen good: ain’t nobody stealin’ our crops, least of all Luis across the Red River, and I ain’t gonna tolerate no blasphemy, no hatred, and no bigotry in this house. As long as you’re dyin’ under my roof, you’re gonna die by my rules.”
Jackson stormed out of his father’s room and closed the door behind him. His father began to mutter behind the thick, wood door but he ignored it and made his way to the bedroom down the hall to get dressed for the day.
*
The black clouds were growing closer, but the sun was still shining bright. Yellow rays beat into Jackson’s back as he and his son knelt and weeded the crops. He had instructed John to pick around the green beans that lined the left side of their farm. He hated weeding the beans, but Jackson did as well, so he wielded his patriarchal authority to avoid having to do the job. Instead, he inspected the corn, weeding and pulling out the stalks that had been cut down or harvested. Altogether, the missing stalks amounted to a negligible loss.
Jackson reached down with a calloused hand and grasped one of the harvested stalks, grunting as he gave it a sharp pull and ripped it from the soil. As he stood, he glanced at the farm across the river. Sadness struck his heart as he saw the dead fig tree rising into the air, towering over the barren lands and dead crops. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, aided by a sudden gust of cool, pre-storm wind.
“Dad?” John called out from his spot on the farm.
“Yeah?” Jackson responded. After stealing a final look at the farm across the river, he walked through the tall stalks of corn and made his way toward his son. John was standing with his hands on his hips, the knees of his tan work pants stained with brown dirt.
“We got some beans missin’ over here,” John said, pointing at one of the large, leafy plants.
Jackson bent down to investigate; his son was correct. A few of the plants had been picked clean – too clean for it to be an animal. He stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “Yeah, looks like whoever got to our corn also got to our beans.”
“Who do ya think did it?”
Jackson shrugged. “Could be anyone. What’s important to remember is it’s not gonna affect our yield.”
“Uncle Matthew said it was the Mexicans across the river that took our crops,” John said. Jackson shook his head and ran his hands through his thick, brown hair. The intense glare of the sun had started to diminish as the black clouds moved forward.
“I need you to understand somethin’ ‘bout your Uncle Matthew,” Jackson said. “First off, you need to understand how important family is. That’s number one. Family’s always your priority. Sometimes you get family you don’t agree with a whole lot. Sometimes your family’s damn near crazy.”
“Uncle Matthew’s crazy?”
“Yeah, he might be,” Jackson said. “Not in the medical sense. But there’s nothin’ to suggest that the folks across the river stole our crops. And – this is most important – even if they did, it’s not gonna hurt us. Just means they’ve fallen on hard times and need some help is all. Yeah, if it is them I’d prefer they just ask me ‘cause I would be happy to share. But there’s some folk like Uncle Matthew that scare them away from doin’ that.”
Jackson checked his son’s wicker basket. It was two-thirds full of green beans. He gestured for John to follow him, and they walked together toward the back porch of the house. There, Jackson sat down. John followed suit, and they looked out at their farm together.
“Look, while we’re talkin’ I need you to do somethin’ for me, okay?” Jackson said.
He looked at his son, who was raising an eyebrow with a confused countenance. Jackson rubbed his hands together before continuing.
“Your mom and I are concerned how you’re treatin’ Emma,” he said. “I know you’re more grown than she, and I know that bein’ fifteen can be awkward. Trust me, I was that age, too. Havin’ a younger sister can be annoyin’ at times. But you can’t treat her the way you been doin’. No name-callin’, no yellin’, no bein’ mean in general.”
John remained silent, though his face betrayed the façade he was attempting to present.
“There’s a good sayin’ I’ve been hearin’ a lot recently. You wanna know what it is?”
“What is it?” John asked.
“No man is better than you, but you are better than no man.’ You know who said that?
“No.”
“Thomas Jefferson,” Jackson said. “And I’d be so bold as to add women to that, too. Your sister is gonna take after your mom, and your mom is a tough woman. Naturally, your sister is gonna be a tough woman. And tough women deserve tough husbands, fathers, and brothers. You’re the oldest. If somethin’ were to happen to me, you’d have to be the man o’ the house. You understand the responsibility that comes with that distinction, don’t you?”
“Yes, Dad,” John said.
“Good. Now, let’s get this food in before it starts spittin’ rain.”
As they were bringing the last basket of corn into the house, rain began to sprinkle downward, the cold drops joining the curling current of the red river.
*
Mist had descended on the small farmhouse as Jackson put a fresh bale of hay in the horse stall. He gave his horse a quick pat before closing the stall door and exiting the barn.
The rain was coming down with more ferocity. Puddles had started to form on the side of the road. Jackson was confused as he noticed the air held the pungent odor of salt and almonds. Even more curious, he noticed a shadow down the road. Though shrouded by the mist, he could tell it was a man hobbling forward.
“Sir, you okay?” Jackson yelled, walking toward the road. “Looks like it’s gonna be a mighty storm. Not a good time to be walkin’ wherever you’re walkin’ too.”
The stranger’s voice came floating up the road, sliding through the rain like an eel in water. “Sir, can I bother you for shelter?”
Jackson reached the fence that separated his property from the dirt road outside of it. A few moments later, he could see the stranger with clarity: he was tall, and he strode with an air of confidence despite the rain that was pelting his body and soaking the black suit he was in. He had both hands in his pockets, as though he had been on a leisurely stroll before the storm had started. Glinting in the dim light was a gold pocket watch chain.
“Where are you off too, stranger?” Jackson asked. “You must’ve seen those black clouds ahead. They’ve been creepin’ up on us all mornin’.”
“Could you do me a favor?” the stranger asked.
“Of course.”
“Tell me, what year is it?”
The rain had started to fall even harder, speckles of brown water spraying up from the ground and splattering his pant legs.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“What year is it?”
Jackson stammered before answering. “It’s 1894, of course.”
“Yes, that’s right,” the stranger said. “Now, would you be willing to give me shelter until this storm passes? I’ve found myself in the strangest pickle, as you can see.”
“Sure,” Jackson said. “I can’t promise you’ll be comfortable. If the storm is still bad when dark falls you’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
“That’s no bother,” the stranger said. “A dry floor is better than the wet ground.”
Jackson smiled. “So it is,” he said.
He gestured for the stranger to follow. As he turned away, he thought he saw the stranger smile in his peripheral vision.