The Farmer

Whether or not he would ultimately end up being caught was of little to no consequence to Ralph at that moment. At that moment, he was more disappointedly fascinated by the agonizingly decrepit condition of his shoes. The shoes he had worked so hard to buy were covered in tragedy. Deep layers of mud concealed the traces of bloody evidence. The fresh rubber and lace odor had been vanquished within twenty-four hours. 

The howling of searching sirens and screeching tires chasing shadowy suspects down alleyways felt like a distant memory already. In fact, it had been a couple of days since he’d even internally shrieked at the sight of a cop car. Now, though, he was in an entirely different state. He wondered if Indiana would be as vigilant in their hunt for him as Kentucky had been. The state border had felt like a finish line. Do they chase across state borders? He wondered. #ThingsYoureNotTaughtInSchool. The truth was, he didn’t even know how it played out in his absence-- or, perhaps more accurately, his fleeing. 

Madison’s survival was still in question. It was only in the arm, but a gunshot wound is a gunshot wound. Run first; dodge questions later seemed like the only logical thing to do at the time. Now five hundred miles from the original altercation, Ralph still couldn’t be sure if he should slow his pace and come out of the shadows just yet.

Stalks of fallen, dried wheat crunched under his newly unrecognizable sneakers. The amber rays of the Sun rose over the golden field he was aimlessly navigating. Figuring the farmers would be out cruising plots on their tractors any minute, Ralph thought it might be wiser to find a more inconspicuous path to travel. But where? He could only see a long-distance when he reached a peak in the landscape, and the last time he did, it was farmland as far as the eye could possibly see: combines and corn mostly. It might be a half day’s walk until actual civilization could be reached. Presently, he couldn’t wander in the fields much longer for fear of a farmer phoning the police for his trespassing. He couldn’t really walk along the edge of the road either. If a local blue-blood pegged his description, he’d be in cuffs on his way back to Kentucky in a squad car faster than a frog can snatch a fly.

Despite being ‘on the run,’ Ralph’s pace had slowed considerably. The adrenaline of the circumstantial events had almost all but relinquished power of his muscles to the deep fatigue which began to plague him with each increasingly small step. The sound of distant, rustling, farm-equipment engines began to drown out the songs of the morning birds as the Sun rose higher into the morning sky. Ralph thought it to be ironic how the Sun could shine so beautifully during such dark circumstances. It was as if Mother Earth had no idea how much trouble he was in. He pulled off his ball cap to wipe the day’s first bead of sweat from his brow. There would be much more to come. The brim was grasped loosely by the tired, filthy fingers of the alleged fugitive. Ralph’s brown eyes glared into the etched logo on the front. Tossing it on the ground, he realized, but if not before that moment, he was in the clothes of a possible murderer-- a murderer wearing a hat and Nikes.

The hat, the shirt, the hoodie, underwear, jeans-- the shoes. He pictured them in a basement locker of some precinct, in a plastic bag marked as evidence. What had been a collection of random choices that fateful morning was now the ensemble of a violent criminal. At least, that’s what Ralph thought the journalists would write if he were later convicted of murder. Though his legs and feet felt the weight of the thousands of steps he’d walked in the past forty-eight hours, Ralph knew he couldn’t stop for even a blink of sleep until he changed his clothes.

Ralph took a moment to check his wallet. There was an array of gift cards with a few bucks left on each and a little over one hundred dollars in cash. Normally, there would be nothing but a Subway punch card to speak of in the billfold, but his birthday had passed mere days before the incident. The same birthday during which he was presented with a gun from his step-father. The same birthday Madison had missed.  

I had to. Right? Thought Ralph for a moment. She would’ve died if I hadn’t shot her. Right? Can someone really be convicted of murder for trying to save someone’s life? The teenage boy, wrought with guilt by the images left in his mind, fell to his knees and began to weep. Some of the tears that ran down his dirty, dried-sweaty cheeks were out of guilt, some of sadness, others of hurt, and many just from emotional exhaustion. Their salty wetness reminded him of the intolerable thirst and hunger he felt. Food or clothing first? He questioned. 

“What the--” spoke a voice from the field. In the gasps of his sobs, Ralph hadn’t heard the stranger approach. “Jesus, kid. You scared the wits out of me. What the hell you doin’ wandrin’ ‘round my field?” 

“Huh?” Ralph meekly responded. He was too tired and hungry to be excitedly startled, though he was obviously, deeply concerned.

“What you mean, huh? You look half-dead. You ain’t on drugs are ya? I ain’t gon’ fool with no druggie-kid dying on my property.” The man, only discernible as a hazy form among the surrounding stalks with the sunlight backlighting his silhouette, waited for Ralph’s response. Ralph squinted his tear-soaked, dirty eyes, trying to pull the figure into focus. Finally, he wiped his face on his sleeve. It only added to the filth and merely pulled away a tiny fraction of the dirt from his cheeks, but his eyes had cleared enough to see the man in more detail.  

The man was a farmer. He appeared to be in his 50s or so from what Ralph could tell. He had a speckled white and brown beard, a hat with no insignia on it, overalls, and work boots. His hands were already dirty to start his day and looked like he had pulled on ropes every day of his life. “Well?” He bellowed in a deep, yet concerned voice.

“Well, what?” Ralph murmured, still confused.

“You on drugs or ain’t ya? I don’t much like to start my mornings with ass whoopins, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Drugs?” Ralph thought of Madison.

“God, damnit. Tell me what’s got you crying like a baby in my field, lookin’ like death or I’m gonna beat your druggie-butt till it can’t take a needle in it no more. I’ve seen your kind before.”

“No, sir. Please. I’m not on drugs.” Ralph’s wits began to return to him.

“Then what in the good Lord’s name are you doing, son? You in some kind of trouble?”

For the first time, Ralph looked into the farmer’s eyes. They sparkled green and didn’t have a hint of meanness in them. He doubted that the man would have ever laid hands on him, even if he had had the urge. Sometimes you can look into a person’s eyes and just know they wouldn't hurt you. “Trouble?” Ralph wasn’t at all sure of what he should reveal to the stranger before him. “I honestly don’t know.” His chin dropped to his chest and his eyes took blurry aim at the man’s boots. The farmer probably spent every day in that field, but his shoes were cleaner. Once again, tears began to stream down Ralph’s cheeks, leaving behind channels of carved-out sorrow.

“Aw, hell. I ain’t even got time for this.” The farmer looked to the sky as if to ask God a question. He pulled his hat off, revealing a mostly bald head that’s remaining hair patches were buzzed down almost to the skull. As he scratched his head, he took a heavy, burdened sigh. It was hard for him not to feel pity at the sight of the crumbling shell of a teenager in distress. Against his own desired judgment to get to work, he questioned the boy some more. “You got someplace you can go? Family or a friend you can call or something? Surely you got some kind of fancy phone on you? All kids your age do nowadays. Right?”

Ralph recalled the lake he had thrown his phone into the night before after a helicopter had flown by. “No, sir. No phone. No friends.”

“No phone?! What the hell kind of kid are you? You Amish? You don’t look like no Amish. And you ain’t got no friends? What kinna kid ain’t got no friends. I bet you got one or two.” Again, the farmer stared at Ralph’s raggedy hair as he shook his head ‘no’, his face still buried in his own chest. An answer was not presenting itself. With a regretful sigh, the farmer continued, “For Pete’s sake. Quit your cryin’ and pick your darn self off the ground, boy. No man ought to sit in his own tears in the mud.” The pregnant pause went on for longer than either cared to withstand. Ralph let his mind wander into a pit of self-loathing and despair while the stranger, deeply confused, contemplated his next move. The farmer scratched his beard and shook his head and jostled himself to attention. “Okay. Not kiddin’ now. Get your butt up and follow me.”

“Wait-- are you going to turn me in?”

“Turn you in? To who? Something I need to know?” He looked hard at Ralph who finally managed eye contact. The two kept their gaze as Ralph pulled himself to his feet.

“No, sir. I just want to know where we’re going.”

“Work. You put me behind already, and I could use a hand today anyhow. Rain’s gon’ and created a whole mess of work. Unless there’s somebody you’d like me to call for ya. We’d have to go back in the house though. I don’t carry one of them fancy phones neither.”

“No, sir. I’ll help you. Just one thing.”

“Yea? What’s that?”

“You got anything to eat?”

“That depends. You got a name?”

“Yessir. Ralph is my name.”

“Okay, Ralph. Jeremiah James Johnson.” He stuck out his meat hook of a hand to shake. Ralph grasped it with what strength he could muster. It was like shaking the giant palm of a gorilla holding sandpaper. “My friends call me Jerry. Family calls me Jimmy. Wife calls me JJ. Pick one. Don’t much care. Let’s get workin’ Ralphy. And we got to work on that handshake. That jus’ won’t do.”

* * * *

Ralph had no idea what time it was. As the shower water swallowed his body, he didn’t care either. He firmly ran his hands all over his body and face, looking down to see the brown mudwater pouring down the drain. He thought of when he had smeared it all over himself by the lake in an effort to camouflage. It had been pointless. The cop cars didn’t stop just as the helicopter hadn’t tracked him either. It dawned on Ralph that he may have not been chased much at all. After a time, the water began to run clear down the drain. 

After stepping out of the shower, Ralph began dressing in the clothes that Jerry had pulled out of a drawer for him. Ralph had never seen a barn quite like Jerry’s. It had a decent room with a bed, dresser, table, and a couple of chairs. It also had a full bathroom and a window with a nice view of Jerry’s fields. The water didn’t get all that hot, and the pressure was weak, but it was clean. Jerry had given Ralph a plain white shirt, a pair of jeans, a pair of thick, white socks, and some underwear. Finally, sitting on top of it all was a set of work boots similar to the ones he had seen Jerry wearing earlier that day.

As he exited the bathroom, he found Jerry sitting at the small table with two plates of food. “I went in the house and got us some supper. Grab a seat.”

“You know, you really didn’t have to do all of this.”

“I needed the help.” He held the slightest smile.

“Still. Thanks.”

“Eat.”

The two of them sat together for several minutes, the only sound to be heard was mostly the clinking of silverware to plates and two very tall glasses of lemonade being picked up and put down on the wooden table. When they were finished, Jerry wiped his mouth with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.

“I got rid of your clothes. The Mrs. wouldn’t even let me bring ‘em through the house to get washed without hosing ‘em down. From the shape they were in, I jus’ as soon figured you could use a few new stitches of clothing on you. Hope that’s alright.”

“Sure.” The evidence. Ralph thought. “What did you do with them?”

“They’s burnin’ in that woodfire we set out back ‘while ago.” Before Ralph could entertain the idea that he could get away with murder, he wondered if he thought he should. “Listen.” Jerry began as he gathered the dishes. “You ain’t a terrible worker. If you’d like to sleep on that there bed, you can. I’ll be by at sunrise. If you ain’t around when I come knockin’, well I’ll jus’ get to work by myself as usual then.” Jerry’s work boots thunked on the floor as he headed for the door. He stopped in the door frame. “And, Ralphy,” Jerry said with a sigh. “I don’t know if it ain’t for nothin’, but I’ll tell you this. I don’t know who you were or what you done. There’s a whole mess of a world who don’t know you a lick either. Alls I know is, you ain’t terrible help, and you seem like an okay fella. Whatever it was you may or may not have gotten mixed up in, maybe it’s best to just let it go. I don’t know your life before today… and today was an okay day.”

* * * *

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Fall clearing season came and went. Winter was upon them with Christmas only a few days away. In all their time in fields, the two men had barely spoken. With some people, bonds aren’t about words. Ralph found himself oddly at peace in the field with Jerry.

After the first month or so, Ralph guessed that either he couldn’t be found, or for whatever reason, no one was looking for him anymore. He pondered various aspects of his old life. He thought about whether his stepdad cared at all where he was, concluding that it was unlikely. His father, a prisoner of the state of Kentucky, surely did not. With a dead mom and functionally no friends, Ralph figured he wasn’t missed by anyone in Kentucky. Over the passing months, he knew one of two things was true. Either Madison survived the gunshot or she didn’t. If she didn’t, he finally came to realize, it wasn’t truly his fault. She would have died if he hadn’t shown up. What’s the difference if she died because he had?

Ralph had been in his room reading a book that Jerry had given him: The Alchemist. He was on his back on the bed reading with the book in the air when there was a knock at the door and Jerry entered.

“I’m glad you cracked it open,” said Jerry, noticing the book. Ralph hadn’t initially taken Jerry for a learned man but had since come to understand how wise he really was. “Fate and destiny. I love books like that. Did you get to the part with the glass shop? Funny how sometimes an old guy and a young guy get pushed together by the universe, huh?” Ralph smiled. “Listen, the Mrs. wanted me to give you something.”

“Oh, yea? What’s that? You really don’t need to give me anything, Jerry.”

“Oh, I know that, but the woman ain’t been wrong a day in her life. Stand up so I can give it to ya.” Not wanting to be rude for even a moment, Ralph swung his feet to the ground, standing up next to the same boots that Jerry had given him the day they met.

“Well, what is it?” Ralph’s curiosity had been fully piqued.

“This.” Jerry reached his arms out and pulled Ralph into the tightest bear hug he had ever felt. The warmth and strength of the embrace caused Ralph to fall weak. The men stood in their embrace, not speaking a word. The coming winter’s wind sang against the barn wood structure. Gentle creaks comforted the silence around them. Finally, the air left Ralph’s body with the exasperated sigh of a lifetime of pain, and he began to cry. Sometimes you don’t know you’ve been holding your breath until you let it out. Jerry continued to hold Ralph’s weight in his arms. After a time, Ralph collected his body and breath and calmly pulled away. He wiped the tears from his face and sniffed hard, wiping his nose with his sleeve. 

“Jerry-” Ralph practically snorted out, not even sure of what he wanted to say. 

“Yea, kid?” There was a long pause as Ralph searched inside himself for something kind to say.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Ralphy.” He smiled and began leaving, and like he had done many times before, he stopped in the doorway for one last word with the kid.

“Ralphy-” he choked, his green eyes glowing with impending tears.

“Yea?”

“Call me Jimmy.”