A Rhinestone Button (11 page)

Job felt his eyes water up and his lip tremble in an effort to hold back tears. He looked away, at Dithy striding down the street.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing that crop circle of yours either,” said Liv. “You hear so much about them.”

“Yeah!” said Jason.

Job nodded, pinched his nose. “You can stop by any time.”

“Could you give us a ride now? I don’t drive.”

“You don’t drive?”

“I let my licence slide. You heading home soon?”

“Now, I guess.”

“How about I put together a picnic lunch and we eat it in the field?”

She disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes and came back carrying a co-op grocery bag.

“I’ve got something for you,” she said. “A treat guaranteed to put a smile on your face.”

She pulled a folded paper towel from the bag, then offered him a plump dried fruit from within it.

“What’s this?”

“Medjool date.”

“It’s warm.”

“Nuked it. Brings out the flavour.”

Job took a tentative bite. The flavour was sharp, sticky-sweet, a revelation. He nibbled at the date, then popped it whole into his mouth, pressed it against the roof of his mouth. He watched as Liv ate hers, the fruit between her lips.

“Good, huh?”

“Wonderful.”

“Another?” When he nodded she tore a bit of flesh from a date and pressed it to his tongue. Her fingers lingered on his lips. Then she put her hand on Jason’s head, and smoothed his hair until he yanked his head away.

Liv held the grocery bag in her lap as she sat next to Job in the truck. The warmth of Liv’s thigh next to Job’s as they bounced down the gravel road, past the row of clowns along the Stubblefield farm. When they pulled into the yard, Ben was spinning donuts on the trike, a three-wheeled all-terrain vehicle Job used to work on fences or to check the cows. Ben couldn’t get enough of the trike. Job had put him to work on it chasing cows.

Ben drove the trike to the passenger side and nodded at Jason as he got out. “Cool!” said Jason.

“We’re going to take a look at the crop circle,” said Job.

“Want a ride?” Ben asked Jason. They were off in a flurry of dust, Jason on the back of the trike, hanging onto Ben’s shoulders so he wouldn’t fall off.

“That thing safe?” Liv asked.

Job shrugged. “More or less.”

As Job and Liv followed the cow trail out to the crop circle, the grass along the fenceline of the adjacent pasture rustled as if an animal were passing through it. Job called, “Kitty, kitty?” and listened.

“What?” said Liv.

“Thought it might be my cat. She hasn’t come back
home. Lilith put her in the dishwasher while the machine was running.”

Liv laughed. “She did what?”

He realized his mistake. There’d be hell to pay from Jacob if word got out. “Don’t tell anyone. Please. I don’t think Lilith could live it down. Or Jacob.”

“The cat survived?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen her since.”

Liv laughed and laughed, a waterfall of tiny silver balls. Tears at the corners of her eyes. Job found himself laughing with her, and the incident seemed less tragic now, less crazy.

The boys, having checked out the crop circle, were making their way back to Job and Liv. Ben pulled the trike to a stop next to them. “You already done with the crop circle?” Liv asked.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” said Jason. “Just not what I thought. I mean, it’s just knocked-down wheat.”

“Barley,” said Job.

“Whatever.”

“Aren’t you going to come with us, have something to eat?” said Liv.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Guess I shouldn’t have given you that pie. All right. See you later. Have fun.” She waved as the boys took off through the field.

As Job and Liv reached the crop circle, a hay devil swept up around them, making mischief with Liv’s skirt, lifting it clear up to cover her face, to expose her pink cotton panties, her sturdy legs. A shiny, inch-long scar on her shin. Liv pushed her skirt down, red flooding her face. So she could be embarrassed, thought Job.

She turned her back away from Job as she unloaded the grocery bag and poured coffee from a Thermos. Job sat with her, an arm propped up on one knee, watching as she set out a checkered tablecloth, napkins, cutlery. He looked down at her leg, the scar there. “Where’d you get that?” he said, pointing.

She pulled her skirt to cover it. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I was helping my dad load the pickup with firewood when I was six. I loaded up my arms too full, you know, trying to impress Daddy, so I couldn’t see where I was going. I walked into the rough edge of the log, cut a gash to the bone.”

“Must of hurt.”

“Yeah. Dad said, ‘Why weren’t you watching where you were going?’ He was pissed he had to take me in to get stitches and couldn’t finish picking up the wood. He said I’d made him waste a day. He couldn’t see I was trying to impress him, you know?”

Job nodded. At the age of five, at Tom and Clara Dumkee’s wedding reception, Job climbed the stairs to the stage of the Godsfinger community hall, danced by himself to Sem Gillespie’s accordion rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening.” Abe grabbed him from the stage, spanked him several times. Shouted, “Show-off!” His voice bristled across Job’s arms like the gristly lick of a cow’s tongue.

Job plucked a couple of oranges out of the grocery bag and did his one-hand juggle. Trying to impress. He dropped the oranges.

“Here,” said Liv. She took the oranges, and a third from the bag, then she stood and juggled. “The idea,” she said, “is to keep your eye on one spot above you. Keep your back straight, move your feet for balance and throw like this.”
She threw an orange up in an arch and caught it in her other hand. “Let your hands throw to each other,” she said. “They know where they are.” She did this without effort, sending the oranges into the air one by one until she appeared to have a tiny, vibrating, swirling sun in her hands. She tossed Job the oranges. He rumbled, catching one, letting the other two fall to the ground.

They ate and talked of who was ill, who had cancer. Who’d been hailed out, who’d been bankrupted and lost their farm. Who’d just died, or was about to. Who’d hung themselves from their barn rafters that month because they were about to lose their farm. The usual talk.

“Will you have to move?” asked Job.

“I don’t know. I want to keep the house. It’s not like Darren wants it. He thinks his dad’s still prowling around the place. I kind of like living with a ghost.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah. I think so. I got up to use the washroom and was washing my hands when I looked into the mirror, into the room behind me. The bathroom door was partially closed, but in the dark space between the door and the door frame there was this old man watching me. Scared me. I swung around and there was no one there. I was so sure I’d seen the ghost. But then I kind of exaggerated when I told people about it, for effect, so after a few tellings my story kind of muddled the memory of it.” She shrugged. “When I saw the thing, I was still half asleep. The ghost could have been a dream that followed me into the bathroom.”

Job had known Darren’s father, of course. Albert Liebich wasn’t a man who tolerated opposition to his opinions. He’d
thrown the whole congregation into an uproar at an annual general meeting when he put forward a motion forbidding anyone at church to use the word
luck
. To say there was such a thing as luck, he said, was to suggest that God was not omnipotent. “God,” he said, “does not play dice.” It was a testament to the power he wielded that, in the end, the motion was passed. From then on,
luck
was no longer used by the pastor during a sermon, or by the board, or printed in the church bulletin. The ladies’ auxiliary no longer held
potluck
, but
cooperative
, dinners.

“Darren says one day the ghost walked up to the house and stood off the deck, looking in through the window right at him. It was pouring rain, but the ghosts coat didn’t get wet. Then he just disappeared.”

“That’d creep me out,” said Job. “Having my dead dad watching me all the time.”

“It’s not so different from how your God watches you all the time, is it?”

Job chewed on that thought for a moment. “So you’d want to keep the house,” he said, “even with the ghost living in it?”

“Sure. We’ll have to wait and see how the settlement turns out, of course. I always thought the house would make a great bed and breakfast. And people like haunted places. It’d be great for tourists. Though why would anyone want to stay in Godsfinger?”

“How about a tea house? We could use a restaurant in town.”

“And pass up the lovely atmosphere of the Out-to-Lunch Café?” She laughed. “Anyway, I like to cook, but not for big groups.”

“Nothing to it. Of course, for something like a tea house you’d need to take better care of your lawn. To attract people in.”

“Oh, I would, would I? That’s the thing about this town. Everyone and their dog’s got an opinion on how you should run your own affairs. I’ve got Barbara Stubblefield banging at my door, telling me I’ve got to Roundup my whole lawn, sunflowers and all. And to plant grass. Keep it mowed within an inch of its life. Like I’ve got the time for that.”

But neatness did count here. If a farmer didn’t keep a neat yard, he was talked about. When a farmer bought a new piece of land, it was said of him that he planned on getting the land into shape. That meant the farmer would work on making the soil fertile, but it also meant he would quite literally change the shape of the land. Having the fields rectangular made tractor use easier and so a farmer would go to great lengths to accomplish this. He would remove sloughs, bush and even hills. It led to an exact way of thinking, Job supposed, that extended to landscaping around the house.

Liv waved a hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just everybody in this town is so caught up in how they think things should be. Barbara’s so set on her idea of what a lawn should look like that she can’t see what’s there. When I told my mother about Barbara wanting me to Roundup the lawn, she said, ‘What kind of crazy person objects to sunflowers?’ ” She laughed, then started to cry.

“You okay?” said Job.

She picked up a paper napkin, wiped her nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m crying about. It just seems to come and go. One minute I’m fine. The next I’m bawling.”
She gathered the Styrofoam cups, paper plates and cutlery and put them in the grocery bag, keeping her eyes on these small tasks as her tears wound down. She was embarrassed by her crying. Job liked her for that. “You know, I’ve never been to your place before,” she said.

“I could show you around.” But made a note to avoid the cabin, Lilith in the house.

The motion of their legs through the hay crop sent sulphur butterflies fluttering up from the flowering alfalfa. The familiar aching heaviness of hay fever filled Job’s sinuses, made his eyes water. He pinched his nose, trying to stop a sneeze, and patted his back pocket for a hanky. When he found none, he blew his nose with the expertise of a farmer, by blocking one nostril with an index finger and blowing sharply towards the ground with just the right amount of force to avoid ending up with goo on his shirt.

Liv laughed, hollered, “Gross.”

Job was aware of a shift between them. That she laughed at his nose blowing wouldn’t have mattered before, when she was with Darren, but it embarrassed him now. He searched for some bright thing to please her with. Broke off a sprig of deep purple alfalfa flower with his clean hand, gave it to her, chewed on another himself.

“It’s sweet!” said Liv.

“Wait.”

He watched the tastes sweep across her face.

“Now it’s like chewing on grass … Now it’s bitter, like old spinach.”

“And it’s got an aftertaste, like when you eat fresh chives.”

“Yeah.”

“The yellow ones are sweeter.” He picked up the pace. “I’ve got an idea. Something I used to do when I was a kid.” And just the month before, but he felt silly admitting to it.

He slid through the barbed-wire fence of the adjacent pasture, where his cows grazed, held the wires apart for Liv. Chose a clean patch of grass and lay down. Liv lay beside him.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Wait.”

They stared at the blue sky. “What am I waiting for?”

“You’ll see.”

One of the cows came towards them, and then they all came, bringing with them the flies that landed on Liv’s and Job’s faces, their arms. The soft thud of hooves hitting grassy earth, the click of their knuckles popping as they put their hooves down. Their snorts and sideways chewing, calves suckling, the rush of urine. The month before, the sounds had produced a flickering show of colour as if on a screen just in front of Job: lozenges of sage green, splotches the orange-red of mountain-ash berries, tongues of deep purple the colour of ripe saskatoons, streaks of steely blue, spirals the pebbled orange of a Christmas mandarin. Colours and shapes that overlapped, blended with each new sound. He had lain listening to it for hours when he was a boy. Better than TV. Now, nothing. He put a finger in each ear, wiggled them, pulled his fingers out. Still nothing.