by Adele McKenna

Excerpt //

Suddenly, Marlon was tired of dancing around the thing. “How’s Amelia holding up?” He had only met Eric’s wife the one time, when they buried the baby. A few weeks later, when it was Edith’s turn, Eric came alone.

“Fine,” Eric said.

The word was a cork in a hole not to be tampered with, so Marlon gave up on questions—had no insights to offer. He let the Ford rattle on, filling the silence until maple trees appeared, sparse at first, then lining the roadside. A quarter mile past the evangelical billboard, Marlon pulled over and parked. The pair got out and stood at the roadside, taking in the scent of wild grass and clover.

Marlon cleared his throat and began the ritual. “You want to tuck your pants into your socks, like this,” he demonstrated, fixing a rubber band around each ankle to keep the arrangement in place. Then, he retrieved two bundled white hats from the truck bed, translucent veils stitched into their stiff brims.

“You’re really getting into this thing, huh?” Eric accepted one of the bundles.

“Well, you need a veil at least, that’s just a basic thing. Here.” He gave Eric the gloves Edith had worn only once, then pulled his own on, repeating the process of tucking sleeves and snapping rubber bands in place.

“So, when do you get the honey out?” Eric doubled over, tucking his own pant legs into his socks.

Marlon shook his head, chortling. “You don’t really get any the first year,” he said. “Just enough in there to keep ‘em going for now. Sometimes you have to help things along, too. Feed ‘em if they need it. Maybe next year, we’ll get a harvest.”

“Takes a lot of patience,” Eric said, pulling the veil over his face.

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FICTION // A Harvest