The Uncertain Harvest [Closed]

[thestruggle]

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

- Robert Frost “Reluctance”



Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;
Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows;
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape;
Give me fresh corn and wheat--give me serene-moving animals, teaching
content...

- Walt Whitman “Give Me the Splendid, Silent Sun”

Harper Flannery
Age: 24
Height: 5'3"
Weight: 115 lbs.​

When Harper Flannery was quite young, she had visited her uncle's farm. The memory began with her small fingers drawing pictures on the closed car window, tracing a pattern over and over until her mother commented that little girls leaving streaky fingerprints could help clean out the car on arrival. She had snatched her fingers back and sat looking listlessly out the window for the remainder of the ride.

Harper's mother was from a large Irish family, and Harper's Granny had been one of fourteen siblings. They had scattered upon reaching adulthood, although a few had remained close to the family dairy in County Cork. Her great-Uncle Danny had come to America to make his fortune, and had bought a failing farm in Wisconsin after working in his brother Patrick's Chicago shop for several years. He had known only a bit about farming, and even less about cherry trees, but he had turned the property around and was now making a profit by selling locally produced cherries and allowing the public to harvest their own fruit. He had never married nor had children, and Harper's mother often worried about him moving through life on his own and so far from family. She had resolved to visit him yearly and this was the first of said outings, which necessitated a family upheaval over five hundred odd miles.

There had been a fleeting landscape and a crunch of gravel. The sun was hot and insects sang dying songs in the foliage along the road. It had been a long trip and tedious, as most car rides are for small children. Her books were boring, her toys were dull, the radio was too loud, her feet were dusty—there had been a litany of bothersome things. She was not a spoiled child and she rarely whined, but the endless driving compiled with the baking heat would have made an angel fractious. Her parents looked at each other and laughed the world-weary laugh of those with children: there was nothing to do but wait it out.

As it came close to the point where Harper would have started weeping in frustration at being confined in the small space any longer, they drove along a rippling expanse of trees. They stood in well-tended rows, their boughs swaying underneath the weight of a heavy bounty of fruit—red fruit, small and round. Harper pressed her nose against the window and tried to look closer, still of an age where the car window impeding her process was something she was unable to get past.

“What are those, Mom? Mom?” Harper had called to her mother, her voice loud in the car's interior.

“Cherries. Harper, sweetie, don't push your nose against the window,” her mother replied, digging around in her purse for something.

“Let it go, babe. We're almost there,” Harper's father maneuvered the car onto another gravel offshoot that branched to the right of the main road—if such a stretch of lonely travel could indeed be called a main thoroughfare.

There was a sign over the the entrance to the avenue, its metal faded and rusted. Boyle's Orchard was the name, although Harper couldn't have read it, and she wasn't paying attention anyhow—the red fruit rocking in the wind had captured her attention entirely. Cherries! She knew cherries, they came on top of sundaes and cheesecakes. They were very juicy and they stained her fingers, but she liked them.

“Mom, can I go get some of those? Can I if I stay real close?” Harper asked, trying not to whine any longer. She understood that to get what she wanted she needed to be grown up about it, and not annoy her parents.

“Harpo, we've got to get to the house and get unpacked. Your Great-Uncle Danny is waiting for us up at the farmhouse, we're running late. Maybe later, okay? We'll ask,” her dad said. He sounded tired and very much like he was making an effort to be patient. Harper didn't mind being called Harpo as long as it was her dad doing it—he was the funniest Marx brother anyway.

Harper settled back into the seat: the orchard was falling behind them and they were coming up to a wide, green lawn. At the back, away from the drive and among some taller trees than the ones just witnessed, sat a pretty house. Harper wondered if they had painted the shutters and door to match the cherries in the orchard. The brakes of the car squeaked as they pulled to a stop in a large space of gravel to the right of the house and her dad muttered about wet springs and faulty workmanship.

The front door to the house opened and a tall man stepped out into the afternoon light, his body lean and grizzled from work. His hair was white and buzzed close to his head, and he wore a white shirt with black pants. His suspenders reminded her of the black and white movies her dad sometimes took naps to in the afternoons and she thought asking if only old people wore them would be impolite. Harper had good manners, for the most part. She figured this was her Uncle Danny and her suspicions were confirmed when her mother unbuckled her seat belt and turned to open her door.

“There's Uncle Danny, I hope he didn't try to keep dinner,” she commented. The car door swung open and caught the glare from the late afternoon sun. Harper squinted against the brightness and hopped out after her mother.

“There ya are! Been wonderin' if I oughta give ya up for gone,” Uncle Danny called to them, coming down the steps. Harper could barely understand what he was saying: he had a brogue so thick it could be cut with a knife.

“Ah Kathleen love, tis grand to see ya! Come in now, no help for it,” He pulled Harper's mom in for a sound embrace, patting her on the back and chuckling. “Sean, lad, welcome.”

Uncle Danny finished shaking hands heartily with Harper's father and turned to Harper herself, who lingered by the car behind her mother, not quite sulking. She was a shy girl and not prone to speaking up in adult company. Uncle Danny knelt down on the ground about five feet away and eyed her, a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. Harper risked a quick glance up at him and then looked back down at her shoes, scuffing their toes along the rocky gravel.

“Harper, is it? Well now, I'm your Uncle Danny. Did ya happen to chance upon the orchard as ya came in?” he spoke to her easily, as though they had been friends for years. When he said the world uncle it came out pronounced as uncail.

Harper looked from her mother to her father and they both seemed amused, expectant, waiting for her to answer. “Um, the trees? The cherry trees?” she asked timidly.

“To be sure, mavourneen, the cherry trees. What do ya say to a stroll after we get things settled? I've a stew waiting in the kitchen,” he said, standing and brushing off his hands.

Harper mouthed the strange new word, mavourneen. Danny caught the movement and smiled, tilting his head. The blue eyes crinkled at the corners and he explained, “It means darlin', and so ya are.”

With that, Harper felt whatever residual shyness fall away, and she walked forward and took Danny's hand. It was calloused and rough, but warm, and years later she knew it was the best welcome she would ever receive.

“Uncle Danny, can I pick some of the cherries after supper?”

He laughed, reached down and picked her up, and started walking towards the house. “Harper, darlin', ya can pick as many cherries as your little heart desires. 'Tis the only reason I've grown them so fine.”

The family went into the familiar glow of the farmhouse, and shared a meal in Danny's kitchen. The rough wooden table, the rise and fall of laughter, and the taste of lamb remained in Harper's memory for the rest of her life. Most of all, she remembered the kindness and acceptance shown by her great uncle, and knew it precious for what it was.

-----​

That trip to Boyle's Orchard was the first of many for Harper. True to his word, Uncle Danny brought her to the cherry orchard and taught her how to pick the best fruit, and the various other elements of the day to day running involved with a cherry farm. She mended fences and helped doctor trees, examined leaves and chased off raccoons and possums. Most of all, she spent the yearly trips visiting with Danny, who was very much like a second father to her. Her parents approved of the interest Harper took in her lineage and family, and whilst their own visits dropped off, continued to send her every year.

The year that she turned eighteen, Harper's visit began later than usual. Graduating from high school and preparing to go to Notre Dame had left her in a whirlwind of activity, but she refused to give up the annual sojourn that she so cherished. Harper had packed up her car and planned to drive to Wisconsin and then on to South Bend at the end of the season. Her parents would come up in time to accompany her on the last leg of her road trip and spend a weekend at the Orchard as well.

The weather was hotter than she could ever remember it being. The air conditioning in her car worked feebly to cool its interior, sputtering out a breeze that was by turns frigid or lukewarm. Eventually she gave it up as a bad job and flicked the knob to off, rolling down her windows. By the time she reached the gravel the atmosphere was much improved, although her hair was flyaway and tangled. Back up went the windows to prevent the rock dust from choking her, or settling on her dress.

The familiar sight of the cherry trees brought a smile to her travel-worn face. There was no wind to speak of and the trees looked slightly drooped under the vibrant fruit they bore. The humidity seemed to wilt everything, running drowsy tendrils up and into all it touched. There were some ladders scattered about, and Harper realized with a start that the season must already have begun. The timing was odd but there was nothing to be done: she could still help visitors pick their crop and share in the bounty herself. She grinned, rubbing her hands on the steering wheel. The anticipation of seeing her Uncle and settling in the house she so adored worked as a fast acting balm to her fatigue. Almost there.

Energized, Harper turned to enter the road heralded by the “Boyle's Orchard” sign. Over the years, the sign had deteriorated more and more, becoming eaten through by rust in spots. It was almost an eyesore but Uncle Danny had been averse to removing it. He treated the sign as though it were a charm or talisman responsible for the success the Orchard had enjoyed. He could be most superstitious but, Harper mused, so could the rest of her family at that.

Whether the sun had caught her eye in an odd way, or she just had a purely instinctual reaction, Harper never knew: when she rounded the corner to drive down the lane a ladder with a man perched on it sat directly in her path.

“Oh, my God!” Harper gasped, slamming on the brakes. The muscles in her calves strained furiously and her pulse skyrocketed.

The man didn't turn around, but merely kept fiddling with the chain attached to one of the sign's sides.

Harper reached down to unbuckle her seat belt, her fingers trembling so wildly that it took her several tries to depress the button and pull the restraint free. Keeping her eye on the man she used both hands to unlatch the car door and then push it open. Her brown leather sandals, with their simple thong design, touched down on the gravel and knocked rocks aside. She felt their round solidness underneath the thin soles of her shoes.

The man kept working.

“Hey! I'm trying to get by here. Can you move your ladder, please?” Harper called up to him, one hand shading her hazel eyes.

He glanced over his shoulder at her briefly, and kept ratcheting the chain so it held the sign tightly in place.

“Excuse me? This is my uncle's orchard, and I need to get my car up to the house. I don't know if you--” Harper trailed off as the man started down the ladder.

“If you noticed, but I almost ran you--”

His work boots touched the ground and she registered his appearance for the first time. Tall, almost a foot taller than her if not more, skin tanned by sun and work. He looked like he was anywhere from five to ten years older than she. He wore no shirt and sweat glistened on the swell of his muscles, the veins in his arms stark but not disgustingly protruding. His hair was dark and his eyes were squinting in the light, focused on the task of packing up his toolkit and peeling off his work gloves. She could not tell their color. Not that he's even paying attention anyway, I might as well be part of the fence.

“Hey! I almost ran you over! You could've--”

He was moving the ladder shut, shouldering it, his toolkit hanging loosely in his hand. His complete disregard left Harper's blood boiling: confusion at the imposing physicality of his appearance compiled with his lack of respect made her stand there with her mouth hanging open as he started down the lane.

“Jackass,” she muttered, kicking at a rock. She studied the sign, finally grasping the difference. It gleamed. The letters of “Boyle's Orchard” were dazzingly distinct, made of some metal that was obviously sturdy and made to last. Harper felt somewhat strange studying it. It was so completely foreign to her that she didn't look directly at it.

“You comin' or what?” came at her in a drawl.

Harper jumped. She had almost forgotten about the shirtless guy in jeans. Looking up she saw he was waiting for her in the middle of the lane, about thirty feet away.

“Get in your car, drive on up the house. Just watch out for me. I'll be the guy with the ladder,” he smirked at her and started walking away from her again, casually, as though the ladder on his shoulder was no hindrance at all.

“Fucking dick,” Harper swore, and hopping in her car, she started it up with angry haste. She pushed on the gas and the car burst forward with a chirp, the tires slinging pebbles and dust. Harper came up on him with speed and was gratified to see him look over his shoulder in alarm, and then scramble out of the way with the ladder swinging precariously as his balance veered. She extended her middle finger toward his flailing limbs and finally pulled into the drive in front of her Uncle Danny's, satisfied at having restored the balance back to her day.

-----​

She knew that her uncle had workers that helped him on the farm, although it didn't usually require many. That year was different. There were men all over the Orchard: fixing up the property, mowing, making repairs and looking the crop over. Harper had known as soon as her uncle came down the steps that the answer was simple: Danny was too old to work the place any longer. His head had been stooped with his shoulders slightly hunched, and his hands shook when they clasped her in his always welcoming embrace. Harper had to fight off tears before she could greet him properly. She hid that fact from him: it would have wounded his pride to see her crying like a baby at the thought of his vitality draining away.

Harper did not mention the man with the ladder, although he remained in her mind. She never even asked his name. The sun had hit his back in a way that made her shudder to think about later: at night and in the quiet dark, the crickets singing in the mowed grass. She saw him from time to time, working with the other men. He didn't look at her often, but when he did, he seemed to radiate a deep and abiding amusement that rankled her. Harper couldn't say why. Part of her longed to march up to him and make him explain himself. The majority of her just liked to sit on the porch swing and see him occasionally meander into her line of sight, with his capable stride and demeanor.

With Uncle Danny quiet in the long and sunny days, it helped to have the distraction.

-----​

That summer was the last Harper would be able to visit. College consumed her life, classes and textbooks and late night cramming sessions. She piled summer classes on, hoping to graduate early and get a jump start on graduate school. By the time she turned twenty-four she had graduated with a degree in community planning and was working on her post-graduate. She had seen the effect of poor outlining when building projects were planned, especially how farms survived before and after such changes. It was something that she desired to change, and she had entered into it with Uncle Danny in mind. Knowing that she would help to preserve the way of life that had been almost his entire existence made her feel proud, at home with herself.

And then the phone call came, which changed everything.

Harper had been sitting at her desk in her little one bedroom walk-up, working diligently on a mock write up for a fake design review board. It was an absorbing assignment and she almost missed the quiet vibration that heralded a call on her cell phone. Snatching it at the last moment, she saw that it was her mother and hit talk.

“Hey, Mam, can I call you back? I've got this--”

“Harpo, I've got something really sad to tell you, so I want you to sit down. Can you sit down, sweetie? I'm sorry to interrupt your work,” Kathleen's voice sounded heavy, a thousand years old.

Harper sat. She swallowed, spoke, “Okay, tell me.”

“It's—well, it's your Uncle Danny. He passed away, just last night. They think it was a stroke but we're just not sure yet,” Kathleen said. “I'm so sorry, honey.”

As she sat with the phone clutched in her hand, Harper felt something dizzy and unsafe fall into place in her mind. Her Uncle Danny. He had been so steadfast, so reliable. A fixture of her childhood. She was ashamed that she had not been to visit him in six years. Too late now.

She remembered a tall white haired man with black suspenders, kneeling on gravel to bring a little girl out of her shell.

Mavourneen.

The tears came, hot and fast, falling like rain.

-----​

And so she attended the service with her parents, and she volunteered to take a semester off. It was no hardship. The shock of her uncle's death had rattled at the foundations of why she had chosen her career. Without Danny, the rest of the small farms didn't seem to matter. She was the one who would go through his belongings, and see the cherry orchard through its final season—at least the final one that would have connection to her family. Her parents protested at the task, saying that surely they would be responsible. Harper shrugged them off.

She resisted in telling them that the real reason she chose to do this one last thing for Danny was guilt. It gnawed at her, made her weep in the small hours. It was the only thing she could do to assuage the loss she felt, and the only work that would fill the gaping whole his absence had made.

There was a farm manager on the place now, that much she knew from her conversations with Danny's lawyer. He had left everything a mess: his papers and such were in no kind of order, and so the question of who the farm would be left to was a perplexing one. Harper had no desire to inherit, only to reconcile her uncle's life with his death by concluding his affairs. She had not met the farm manager at Danny's funeral mass, nor the whiskey-toasted wake the night before. A part of being Irish was the wake held at one's passing. The tales told and songs sung were supposed to be a celebration of joy in how one lived.

Harper mostly got drunk.

So it was with trepidation when she pulled up to Uncle Danny's farmhouse after closing out her apartment in Indiana. It was evening, and there was light glowing through the windows onto the porch. The sight very nearly made her weep again, so sure was she that Danny would lope through the door and come down to her car, open the door. Scold her for arriving late and driving in the dark. Why didn't I come here? What kept me away? So selfish.

The front door opened and a figure was outlined, black with the light from the house spilling over its shoulders. She hurriedly brushed the tears from her eyes and resolutely swallowed the lump in her throat. Harper grabbed up her purse and straightened the navy t-shirt she wore. Stepping out of the car, she squinted her eyes at the light. She still couldn't see who it was and felt a strange whisper of apprehension.

“Thanks for meeting me, uhm, I'm--” she began, as the figure moved out onto the porch. The light adjusted and his features were illuminated.

Dark hair. Secretly amused.

“You? You're my uncle's farm manager now? I—I...” Harper crossed her arms.

It was the guy with the ladder.

Fucking perfect.

 

[Firmhanded_Daddy]

.....