The Farm

'Departmental meeting,' Gordon said. 'The dean's pressuring us to get more articles published.'

'Isn't your book good enough to satisfy him?'

Gordon set down his wineglass hard enough to clink. 'Nobody cares about Appalachian religion anymore. The old churches are dying out. Foot washings, tent revivals, creek baptisms, it just seems like a bunch of superstitious nonsense to my peers. But why should they think any differently? The faculty's from Boston, Berkeley, Tallahassee, and Detroit. They know more about the thousand Hindu gods than they know about their own backyard.'

'Now, dear, I'm sure your work is appreciated.'

Jett was freaking. Mom had never called her dad 'dear.' Jett had to shove some pie in her mouth to keep from gasping in disbe lief. She had to admit, the pie was pretty awesome.

'They don't understand the importance of the church in Solom's history.' Gordon pushed away his dinner plate and started on the pie. He raised one eyebrow in pleasure. 'I'm impressed.'

'Just an old family recipe,' Mom said.

'I didn't know we had any old family recipes,' Jett said.

'Sure, honey. It's about time you started taking on a bigger share of the kitchen work. After all, you'll be a woman soon.'

'More chores,' Gordon said. 'That's what builds character. Hard work will keep you out of trouble. Speaking of which, you'll need to feed the goats after dinner.'

'In the barn?' Jett looked at mom. Mom wore a faint smile, her lips stiff like those of someone sitting for a painting.

Gordon focused on the last of his pie, shoveling it down in gooey white lumps. He scraped his fork across the plate and licked it clean. 'Sure. Just throw down a couple of bales from the loft. The grass isn't growing as fast with winter coming on.'

'But it's almost dark.'

'There's a flashlight in the hall closet.'

'What about the man—'

Gordon looked at her, his eyes like lumps of cold coal behind his lenses. 'What man?'

'Never mind.'

'It's a rite of passage,' Gordon said. 'If you're going to live on the farm, you're part of the farm. Persephone's about to go back to Hades and winter's on its way.'

'Who is Persephone?' Jett didn't really want to sit through a lec ture, but figured she might as well stall for time.

'Persephone was the daughter of Demeter and Zeus in Greek mythology. Hades, the king of the Underworld fell in love with her and dragged her to his realm. Demeter, who was goddess of the harvest, was angered and hurt. She punished the world through cold winds and freezing weather.'

'Sounds like a bummer for all concerned.'

'Especially the poor humans, who thought they had lost Demeter's favor. Hades eventually agreed to let Persephone come up to the world for half the year, giving us spring and summer.'

'Why didn't Persephone just run away?'

'Because she had fallen in love with Hades.'

'Some people just fall in love with the wrong person,' Jett said, giving Mom a bloodshot stare. Mom smiled.

'Okay, chores now,' Gordon said. 'Just don't try to sneak a puff of drugs while you're out there. I know what that stuff smells like. Those hippies in East Dorm crank it out like a steam train.'

'Mom?' Jett looked to her mom for any sign of concern, but Mom could just as easily have been watching television on the dining room wall. Jett had almost blurted out to Mom about seeing the man in the black hat, or being touched by the scarecrow guy in the attic, but she hadn't, and now it would sound like the ultimate case of crying wolf. Or else the rantings of a deranged dope fiend. Besides, she didn't want Gordon to get one over on her. She'd show the bastard even if it killed her.

Well, maybe that was a little extreme. Stoner paranoia. She pushed her pie away and went to the closet, finding the flashlight and shrugging into her favorite studded jean jacket. 'If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, tell them my merry-go-round broke down,' she said.

Gordon paused with his goblet to his lips. 'Some kind of drug slang?'

'A Tommy Keene reference. Get it, Mom?'

Mom gave a Stepford grin. 'No, dear. Who is Tommy Keene?'

Freaky.

Before Jett could dwell on the shadowy man who no doubt awaited her, she burst out the front door, gripping the flashlight as if it were a billy club. 'Don't let Hades come up and grab you,' Gordon hollered after her.

She should have told Gordon to go take a flying fuck at his pre cious goats. Maybe a good, old-fashioned blowup would shatter the creepy little drama stage that the Smith house had become, maybe even yank Mom out of Stepford mode. If Jett and Gordon got into a knock-down, drag-out, surely Mom would take her side. Wouldn't she?

Dusk was settling in the east as she made her way to the barn, the sky gone as purple as a Goth's eyeliner. Crickets chirruped in the cool night air, but the forests were still. The lights of a few houses cast solid sparks against the darkening slopes, but they seemed miles away. The creek gurgled like a hundred men with cut throats.

I can do this, she thought as she opened the gate. I can feed Shadrach and Nebuchednezzer and whatever the fuck else Gordon named them, then walk back in the house whistling. That way I can score points on Gordon. I won't let that fucker win.

She shuddered as she walked through the spot where she'd seen the man in the black hat earlier, when he'd lifted his hand and waved those cheese-colored, stiff fingers. She thumbed on the light and played the beam in front of her, watching for piles of goat goodies. She reached the barn without incident, and took a last, longing look at the lights of the Smith house before she entered. Part of her expected to see Mom at the kitchen window, watching after her, but all the curtains were drawn.

Figured. Mom was Gordon's now, for whatever reason. This seemed like something Jett was supposed to do alone. So much for getting through things together.

She had to throw all her weight against the barn door to slide it open, the little wheels creaking in their metal track. Her ankle throbbed like a sore tooth. The inside of the barn was nearly pitch- black, the chicken-wired windows leaking the last of the dying daylight. The odor of manure, animal hair, and straw filled her nose and nearly made her sneeze. The goats must still have been in the fields, because the bottom floor appeared empty. She played the cone of light over the stairs. The scarecrow was in its usual place, hanging from a wire tied to a fat nail. Straw bulged from the seams in the clothes, and the cheesecloth face was expressionless. As the flashlight beam swept slowly over the wall, Jett paused. The wicked-looking sickle was gone.

Something stirred just outside the barn, and Jett told herself the goats had decided it was feeding time. She went up the stairs, care fully adjusting her weight with each step to protect her sprained ankle. The wood groaned and squeaked like a beast with an arthritic spine. The door leading to the loft was shut, with the hasp in place, but the lock hadn't been snapped. Just like the first time she'd seen the man in the black hat. Or the scarecrow creature. Or the abominable fucking snowman.

If she'd even seen anything at all.

To hell with it, just get it over with.

She could hear the goats milling below, calling out in anxious voices with their peculiar bleats. They must have been out in the barnyard the whole time, as if expecting her. It seemed crazy, but it sounded like there were lots more of them. They had somehow multiplied in number in the last couple of days.

What was it the Bible said? Be fruitful and multiply? Did that apply to goats or just to people? I'll have to ask Gordon. Strike that. I could never ask Gordon anything that would make him even more fucking smug than he already is.

Jett eased into the loft, her footfalls hushed by the scattered hay. The air was as thick as snuff, and golden motes spun lazily in the flashlight's beam. The bales were on the far end of the loft, and even dry, they weighed