Hard Row

MARGARET MARON

Haywood’s broad face turned red. “There you go

again. Like our generation poisoned the world.”

“Some of your generation has,” said Jessie. “Crop

dusters filling the air we breathe. PCBs causing can-

cer. Look at the way some farmers still sneak and use

methyl bromide even though it’s supposed to be illegal

now. And then they make their guest workers go in right

away.”

Her indignant young voice italicized the word

“guest.” She knows as well as any of my brothers that

migrant workers are but the newest batch of labor-

ers to be exploited. I remember my own school days

when I first learned that expendable Irish immigrants

were used to drain the malaria-ridden swamps down in

South Carolina because slaves were too valuable to be

risked. To claim that undocumented aliens do the work

Americans are unwilling to do ignores the unspoken

corollary—“unwilling to do it for that kind of money.”

Hey, the balance sheet can look real good when you

don’t have to pay minimum wage.

But if Haywood was unwilling to be lectured by

Zach, no way was he going to be lectured by nieces or

nephews.

Or by me either, for that matter.

“We ain’t here to argue about what other people are

doing on their land,” he said hotly. “We’re here to talk

about what we’re gonna do on ours.”

Robert sighed. “I just wish we didn’t have to quit

raising tobacco.”

Andrew and Haywood nodded in gloomy agreement.

“We don’t,” Seth said. “At least not right away. We

44

HARD ROW

won’t really lose money if we sign contracts for another

couple of years.”

Andrew brightened. “At least get a little more return

outten them bulk barns.”

My nieces and nephews looked at each other in dis-

may at the prospect of sweating out tobacco crops for

another two or three years.

“But it wouldn’t hurt to start cleansing some of our

land,” I said. “It takes about five years of chemical-free

use to get certified, right?”

Lee shook his head. “Only thirty-six months.”

“Well, if you guys want to do the paperwork, you

can start with my seven acres on the other side of the

creek.”

“The Grimes piece?” asked Seth.