Turning Pages

If it were up to him, Ron would set fire to all farms and start them anew. There was too much poor planning and derelict roads around them for his liking.

His SUV crawled up the hill. The stormy night had cut up the earth road and made it slippery. This didn’t faze the car as it soaked up the bumps and crevices while maintaining impressive traction. A sedan wouldn’t have managed the climb. Over the crest, the farmhouse came into view.

It looked the same as it had eight months ago when he last visited. The aged stone-cut walls. The low-hanging slate roof with faded red tiles.

It stood alone and deceived you into thinking that’s all there was. Yet, if you took the time to walk behind it, the scale of the farmland would astound you. This thought made Ron break into a rare smile. He recognized Grandpa's style. The Trojan horse. Ron liked his cunning strategies.

Grandpa. He was the reason for this visit. 

“You might want to move a little to the left,” the woman shouted at him. It was his sister, Abby. She was shorter and slender. Draped in farm overalls, gumboots, and stained gloves, she cut a frenzied figure.

“That’s where I parked it last time,” Ron replied.

“This isn’t last time.” She grabbed a pail and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Ron grunted. He reversed and parked closer to the house. He walked gingerly to the front door, navigating the puddles of water that threatened his new pair of leather boots.

The front door was ever open. Grandpa often said it didn’t make sense for a farmer to have his front door closed.

“It’s good for the chicken to see the interior of the house while alive. When they were dead, all grilled and spicy atop the dinner table, it’s too late to enjoy such a privilege,” the old man would joke. Ron initially thought he was being a caring man. Now, he considered it quite a dark thing to say.

Ron found Grandpa seated on the tall armchair. It looked like a throne, perhaps a reminder to all that he was still the king of the farm, despite his now frail frame. In the old days, the old wooden radio would blare out traditional folk songs as he smoked his pipe. They recently took the pipe away from him. Doctor’s orders.

The old man was asleep. His snoring was loud and obnoxious. Ron tiptoed to the seat next to him and eased into it. He stared around the room. It was a cluttered living room, with old seats, stacks of newspapers in various corners, a long coffee table, and an assortment of wall hangings. The hangings were mostly photos of Grandpa at various moments in his younger years.

The image that always captivated Ron was of the day Grandpa got out of the forest.  He sported long dread-locked hair, rugged wear, and bloodshot eyes at the time. When they got out, they found the president waiting for them. The country had attained independence and the president made a show of appreciating the great efforts the fighters had made. Grandpa never smiled during the entire interaction.

Footsteps approached from the front door. Abby emerged.

“He’s about to wake up,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“I’m with him every day. I know.”

Ron never wanted to interrupt them. The old man was making up for lost nights. For many years, he struggled with back pains and ravaged by nightmares. It was only five years ago that, as his body caved into the weariness of old age, he started taking peaceful daytime naps.

As Abby predicted, Grandpa started moving. His wrinkled eyelids fluttered to life as he got his bearings. Drool edged out of the corner of his mouth, which he promptly wiped off with the sleeve of his cardigan.

“Hi, Pops,” Ron said.

Grandpa grunted.

“He lost his voice yesterday,” Abby said.

Ron shot her a look. “He what?”

“He was shouting out instructions while the cow was giving birth.”

“Bertha gave birth?” Ron asked.

“You want to see the calf?” Abby asked, grinning.

“It rained hard yesterday.”

Abby gave his shoes a cursory look. “I’ll get you some gumboots.”

He shook his head. “I’ll see it later.”

“Suit yourself, mister.” Abby left.

Grandpa gestured towards the radio. Ron went to turn it on but Grandpa shook his head. Not that.

He pointed at a pile of books on the shelf behind the radio. Ron touched each one to see which one he desired. Grandpa nodded when Ron got to The Melting Mask.

It was Grandpa's memoir, done while his mind was still fresh. The last print came out in 1982, the year Ron was born. It was a year older than Abby.

Ron walked back to his seat and opened the book.

The pages had a light-orange tinge. A woody scent wafted to his nostrils as he flipped the pages.

Grandpa motioned him to turn the pages. His venous hand waving until he held up his palm. Stop.

It was page 54. Grandpa nodded, and Ron started reading.

We waded through the bog. I was unsure if some underwater creature would snag my feet. This concern was overshadowed by the sound of bullets flying over our heads.

Ron stopped when Abby walked in with a steaming bowl of soup. She handed it to Ron along with a tablespoon.

“Be careful as you do it. You don’t want to mess up the sweater you bought him.”

Ron took the bowl reluctantly. “It might be too late for that.”

“I‘m asking you not to worsen things. Only one of us is going to wash it,” Abby replied.

Ron lifted a spoonful of soup to the old man's mouth. Grandpa gently blew on the spoon to cool the soup before taking it. Ron kept doing this for the next three spoonfuls.

Suddenly, Abby took the spoon from him. “You’re too slow.”

She fed Grandpa at twice the pace. The old man kept up with the rhythm, his drumming fingers signaling he liked this. The efficiency was so impressive that Ron forgot she had slighted him.

“That wasn’t too bad. He’s still got it in him,” Abby said, empty bowl in hand. “He can now go back to sleep.”

“But I’m reading to him.”

“Perfect. It’s the best way to get him to La-la land.” She left.

Ron glanced at Grandpa, who nodded. He continued reading.

This was the lowest point in the valley, and a slight bluff shielded us from direct sight. However, when heard the sound of numerous boots running toward us, we tried to get out of the water. Some made it out, but a fellow fighter and I slipped on the bank. Instead of trying again, we took a deep breath and slid underwater.

Grandpa asked him to skip some more pages. Ron stopped on page 72.

The bullet had gone through my right side. It was a flesh wound but I was losing blood fast. I took off the shirt I had stolen from an army officer and tore it into strips. I would have tied them around my torso but my large frame worked against me. I rolled the strips into a ball and plugged the wound. Then I heard the distant droning sound. Planes. I struggled to my feet and started moving towards the caves. I tried to walk faster despite the excruciating pain I was in. I had to find cover before the bombs found me.   

More skipping. Page 101.

I knew I was going to die. After the General’s assassination, it was only logical that they would come for me. Strangely, I didn’t fear death by a bullet, knife, or bomb. I was more concerned my last moments would come through the hands of those close to me. The worst kind.

Grandpa started snoring. Ron paused, and then turned to another page of his choosing. Page 113.

 In peacetime, you marvel at the whistling of trees as they sing a song of tranquility. In wartime, you study them instead, for any sudden haste by the birds and monkeys will tell you the threat is near.  You inhabited signs, clues, and instinct so much that love didn't exist anymore. There was only room for routine and movement.  Thus, our hearts grew cold. This made us better killers. However, once we tasted freedom, we didn’t know how to love again.

Ron let his fingers over the last line. The words stung him. He lifted his head and gazed at Grandpa. The sleeping giant. He knew what the words said. He didn't know what to do with his newfound knowledge.

Ron closed the book and returned it to the shelf. He walked to Grandpa's sleeping form and placed a small shawl under his chin. It would make him more comfortable and handle the inevitable drool.

A stinging smell hit Ron’s nostrils. Smoke.

He went outside.  The sun shone brighter, but it wasn’t producing enough heat to soften the rain-soaked ground.

A few feet from the barn was a fresh mound of trash that was in flames. He headed to the barn, ducking the plumes of thick smoke. 

Starved of good lighting, sun-rays shot through large gaps in the roof. The small puddles here and there confirmed that rainwater leaked into the space.  

Abby had moved things around to mitigate the damage, resulting in organized chaos. Bales of hay lay scattered. Bags of manure stood next to them.

Near the far wall was a messy pile of short wood poles. Next to it, Abby sat on a wooden crate with her back against the wall. As Ron got closer, he realized she was asleep. His footfalls stirred her awake.

“You’re sneaking up on me now?” she asked, getting to her feet. As if nothing had happened, she moved to the messy pile and grabbed a pole. She placed it neatly along the wall.  

“Mum and Dad said hi,” Ron said.

“They were last week. Their hugs are still fresh. Thanks though,” Abby replied.

He bit his lip. “Does Herman come around anymore?”

Abby chuckled. “When you called two months ago, I told you his wife died. He’s got to look after his kids, you know.”

“Oh. I see. Anyway, some of the cash I sent could be used to hire some help.”

“This is a farm, Ron. You can’t throw money at everything and expect it to work automatically,” Abby said.

Ron watched as she kept stacking. He clasped his hands together.

“It hurts to be here,” Ron said.

Abby slowly turned to him. “It hurts?”

“Yes.”

Her flaming eyes bore into him. “Tell me something, Ron. What exactly hurts you right now? Standing there in your new shoes and cozy jacket? Having your ass freshly massaged by the heated seat in your big car? What hurts you, Ron?"

"I… I don’t like talking to you like this. With this wall between us," Ron said.

Abby went quiet for a moment. She walked up to him while taking off her left glove. She reached for his right hand, lifted it, and felt his palm.

She shook her head and handed him the glove.

Ron took it. “Do you have another one?”

“Your palms are too soft. If you’re going to tear down any walls, you’ve got to get used to callouses,” Abby replied. She walked back to the wheelbarrow.

Ron hesitated, and then put on the glove.