Buried Seeds Read online

  BURIED SEEDS

  DONNA MEREDITH

  BURIED SEEDS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Donna Meredith. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief quotations contained in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by Wild Women Writers, Tallahassee, FL

  For Susan B. Anthony

  and all the women who march.

  ~~~

  We shall someday be heeded, and we shall have our amendment to the Constitution of the United States, everybody will think it was always so, just exactly as many young women now think that all the privileges, all the freedom, all the enjoyments which woman now possesses always were hers. They have no idea of how every single inch of ground that she stands upon today has been gained by the hard work of some little handful of women of the past.

  -Susan B. Anthony, 1894

  what didn’t you do to bury me but you forgot that I was a seed

  -Dinos Christianopoulos

  Young people will have the seeds you bury in their minds, and when they grow up, they will change the world.

  -Jack Ma

  Prologue

  You’ve played Jenga—yes? Held your breath while removing yet another block from a tower wobbling from so little support? In every game, there comes a moment when stasis tumbles toward chaos, and collapse is inevitable.

  The underpinnings of our history, our individual lives, are not as easily observed as the removal of the final block that causes a Jenga crash. Did the American Revolution begin with Paul Revere’s ride—or was it preceded by more subtle loosening of the King’s grasp? Some scholars cite the King’s edict forbidding settlers from moving west past the Appalachian Mountains. Others credit passage of the Sugar Act or the Stamp Tax.

  But most likely, the upheaval began with one man—or one woman, who would never receive proper credit because of her sex, bless her heart—lying sleepless in bed, twisting the blanket in fists, deciding something had to be done—now, not later—and it couldn’t be left up to someone else. That one human roused another and another until a chorus of protest filled the colonies. They swelled into an army. A revolution. Our teacher strike, I think, evolved much the same way.

  Dewey says it’s fruitless to dwell on the past. As he likes to remind me, a human is not a science experiment that can be planned, manipulated, controlled, replicated. Maybe so, but still my thoughts sift through the memories, relentless as a tongue poking a sore tooth, to explore the sharp edges of what I nearly lost and assess what I might have gained. To question the risks I took.

  Did my frequent insomnia this past year result merely from wobbly middle-aged hormones, or did I sense more fundamental wobbles in the underpinnings of my life, my job, and even in the larger world outside my little realm?

  Angie Fisher

  Clarksburg, West Virginia, August 2017

  Sweat soaks my pillowcase, the air heavy with the humidity of late summer and the lingering odor of the salmon I sautéed for supper. I glance at the red LED readout on my clock. Quarter after eleven. Half an hour, I’ve been lying awake. I roll onto my back, close my eyes. Deliberately, I begin to count my blessings, picturing each family member and friend, a relaxation technique to forget my worries. To forget the heat. At last I feel myself adrift in the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.

  The light on Dewey’s side of the bed flares on, the visual equivalent of a screeching fire alarm. He thrusts his body upright with an obnoxious whump that rocks the mattress and scares the freaking daylights out of me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Angie, I gotta tell you something. I didn’t want to, but it’s better if you hear it from me.”

  The blood drains from my head and shivers race along my body, now cold against the damp sheets. Is he about to confess he’s cheating on me—or he wants a divorce? These prospects skirl through the fish odor and curdle my stomach.

  “There’s rumors going around . . .” He pauses.

  The wife is always the last to know. “Just spit it out, Dewey.”

  “I heard Dynamo Deals is shutting down almost a hundred stores nationwide. Ours is one.”

  The tension melts away. He isn’t leaving me. But by the time I wiggle my toes and have time to think about what he’s done, my muscles tense up tight as a double fisherman’s knot. He could have told me when he got home from work or over dinner. But no, he waits until I’m asleep. I make an effort to suppress anger, to be sympathetic. Obviously, he’s been lying there on the other side of the bed stewing over this news, and no wonder.

  “Geez, Dew, that sucks.” I dig my fingers into the spot where his cervical spine ends and massage my way down the center of his back. What rotten luck—the third company he’s worked for in the last decade that’s folded.

  Was he agitated throughout dinner? I can’t remember looking at his face, not even once, since he came home from work, preoccupied first with fixing the rice, the fish, the salad; the washing of dishes; and finally wrapping up paperwork on a grant I’d received to take students on a summer field trip. I hadn’t paid attention to him at all. I shrug off my guilt. When I first started painting red highlights in my hair, it took a week before he noticed—and then only because my mother asked him if he liked having a redhead as a wife. Chalk it up to decades of marriage—you take each other for granted the way you do your favorite chair or gravity.

  He flops back onto his pillow. I study him now and like what I see as much as I did when we met my senior year of college. Thick brown hair, though not as thick as it used to be. Hazel eyes. Gently upturned nose. Oversized ears, an imperfection I find endearing.

  His arms are crossed behind his head, lower lip sucked into his mouth. He blows out a puff of air. “If the rumor’s true, I sure hope the layoffs don’t happen until after the new year.”

  “We’ll make do,” I tell him. I’m not sure how, but we will.

  As manager, he’s always the one who has to axe people he’s worked with for years. They are more than employees. They’re our friends. Neighbors. Parents of my students. I feel bad for all those folks, but I can’t help worrying about our own family. Dewey’s employer hired him as an independent contractor—so, no unemployment benefits. How will we pay our bills on my measly teacher salary? Years ago, Mom needed an experimental treatment for cancer. Her insurance wouldn’t cover it, so Dewey and I took out a second mortgage. Then came Trish’s college, numerous dental crowns, and the recession—followed by Dewey’s purchase of an expensive, gas-hog truck. I’ve never aimed to be rich, yet somehow I thought our finances would be more secure by the time I neared fifty.

  Dewey turns off the light and rolls over, thoughtlessly pulling the entire sheet over to his side. I reach over and yank it back. I can’t sleep without the comfort of a sheet, no matter how hot it is. How the devil can he sleep anyway? I punch my pillow and roll away from him. The longer I think about his waking me up, the more annoyed I get.

  My hub is not what you’d call a go-getter. Not lazy—never that—but laid back. I worry he won’t push hard enough, move fast enough, to find another job. There are so few out there. Last time, he was out of work for eleven months, despite having an MBA. We ate through what little savings we had, yet somehow there was always enough money for another case of beer.

  Some folks are movers, and some are shakers. If you want to change the world, you have to hop off the couch, take a deep breath, an
d boldly charge into the den of power. In other words, become a mover and shaker, which is different than either one by itself. The only thing Dewey ever shook up was a beer can once as a joke when we were camping with friends. When bubbles erupted, he laughed— Look, Ange, West Virginia champagne. I can hardly criticize Dewey for not putting himself out there. I’d rather eat live toads than stand in the spotlight. I hunker down inside my comfort zone less than ten miles away from the thirty-acre farm where I grew up. Home is Clarksburg in West, by God, Virginia. I have a tap root like a carrot or a beet. I wouldn’t transplant well.

  Dewey happily plods along doing whatever needs to be done. He hammers new shingles on our leaky roof. Replaces splintered boards on the porch steps and malfunctioning flapper valves in the toilet. He’s a good man to have around when anything goes wrong. He knows how to fix things. I appreciate this—I do. I count him among my blessings, but sometimes he drives me crazy.

  His bedside light comes on again. “I was thinking, maybe you could ask your brother-in-law to refinance the mortgage. Should be easy for him to arrange, his being a hot-shot banker.”

  A shudder travels down my spine. “Nope. Not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  Where to start? “You’ve heard the rumors about his pay-to-play schemes. You want a state government contract, you gotta pay State Senator Ted McNeil, a.k.a. Ted McSteal.”

  “That’s nothing to do with us. A word from him, and his bank could cough up a loan. He could even co-sign.” “I would rather swallow week-old roadkill than take money from that creep.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You just have a thing about rich guys. Think they’re all crooks.”

  Dewey turns off the light again, correctly reading my silence as refusal. His head falls onto the pillow. “I’ll ask Ted if you don’t want to. I’m not afraid of a guy just because he wears an Armani suit.”

  “Don’t.” It’s a command, but after a pause I throw in please to be polite.

  I lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling. It isn’t the suit I am afraid of, or even Ted’s money and political connections. If you can believe the hints my sister drops, Ted may become the next State Treasurer—or even run for Governor. I suppose that’s why she’s stayed with him when he’s cheated on her for years.

  Dewey knows nothing about the long history between Ted and me. My sophomore year in college I had half a dozen dates with my future brother-in-law. One Sunday night, he showed up with an eye-popping engagement ring and proposed a summer marriage, spinning out his vision to transform me into a stay-at-home wife with country club memberships and Caribbean vacations. I proposed he seek help from the nearest psychiatrist. I was not dropping out of college to become his little lapdog.

  Ted didn’t even wait for the weekend to put the hustle on my freshman sister. Three months later he placed that same eye-popping ring on MacKenzie’s finger and convinced her to drop out. Wasn’t hard. Except for the social aspects, she never cared much for school anyway. Ted swept her up in a tornado of parties, culminating in an obscenely expensive wedding with a dozen fluffy bridesmaids. Including Yours Truly, even though flannel is more my forte than fluff. I have kept his proposal secret. MacKenzie and me—we are not always kind to each other as it is.

  After I turned him down, the computer disk containing my psych term paper disappeared from my dorm room two days before it was due. Frantically, I cranked out another one from notes. Ted turned my paper in as his own.

  Once a snake, always a snake. We will find another way to get by.

  ~~~

  The coffee this morning tastes bitter. I add more creamer to my cup, Fiestaware, like the plates hung in an arc along the kitchen wall in all the cheerful colors of a rainbow. I fix two bowls of cereal and place them on the table.

  Dewey saunters out of our bedroom wearing baggy shorts and a faded Yuengling tee-shirt, his WVU baseball hat slapped on backwards. In the kitchen he plunks a six-pack and pretzels into an insulated nylon lunch sack.

  I aim a stink eye at his shirt. “Maybe you shouldn’t advertise your plan to drink beer during the tournament.”

  He harrumphs. “Angie, what they gonna do—arrest me?”

  That’s my Dewey. Never worries. Says I do enough fretting for both of us. Hard not to, when our income will soon be halved and a potential employer might attend the bocce tournament, the first event in the annual Italian Heritage Festival. The main festival is still weeks away over Labor Day weekend.

  When we arrive at the bocce court in nearby Shinnston, I am relieved to see not many spectators have turned out to watch. I would prefer to join them instead of competing, but I agreed to be Poppy’s partner because the festival means so much to him, a connection to his mother’s family who had emigrated from Italy three generations ago to work in the coal mines. Poppy, though, has never been inside a mine, thank goodness. For three decades, he owned two restaurants specializing in Italian recipes he’d learned from his mother. Baked rigatoni and meatballs. Mostaccioli with broccoli alfredo. Limoncello cake with mascarpone filling. Yummy doesn’t begin to describe Poppy’s delectable kitchen creations. Sadly, age necessitated his hanging up his apron.

  I step onto the court and roll a few practice balls. Dewey waves from his perch on a wooden rail. His other hand cradles a rubbery red koozie, partially obscuring his beer. A sweat ring is already darkening the neckline of his tee-shirt. Small wonder. The sun screams down, throwing a wicked tantrum, no breeze at all. Despite the shade offered under the pavilion, I feel sticky as flypaper.

  Beside me, my sister shoots a couple of selfies, and then removes the fancy extension stick from her phone. “Angela, I switched this over to video. You want to film my next practice roll?”

  I live for it trips to the edge of my tongue. In the interest of family peace, I stifle it and capture Mac’s athletic toss for posterity. While filming, I can’t help but notice, with a trace of unbecoming glee, her blonde hair is more straw than strawberry these days. Too many years of bleaching. Makes me feel better about those auburn highlights I’ve been painting into my hair. I pretend they’re for kicks, not because of the unsightly gray wires that stick out like I’ve been playing Ben Franklin with a kite in a rainstorm.

  Mac studies the playback. “Choppy. Let’s try it again.”

  Dutifully, I record Take Two and Take Three. By then I’ve had enough. “Facebook will have to get along without Take Four.” I smack the phone back onto her palm. “Here you go, Movie Star.”

  She laughs, choosing to ignore my sarcasm. Just as well.

  In addition to the festival, my family is celebrating the rare return of our superhero, MacKenzie Adams McNeil. Unlike me, Mac is a mover. After she married Ted, she sashayed off to Charleston so fast the dust is still settling behind her decades later. I can count on both hands the number of times she has come home for a visit, even though she lives only two hours away. Mac’s motto: so many cosmic causes, so little time. My sister is Chair of the Hospital Fundraising Committee. And let us not forget, Secretary of the Men’s Rights Activists. In the World According to MacKenzie, her lawyer son faces unfair competition from pushy women scrambling to make partner. MacKenzie has journeyed alone to the north central part of the state because Senator Ted is busy shaking down people in the capital.

  For the umpteenth time, my eyes roam the metal bleachers full of folks who have shown up to watch the tournament. Funny, how I can stand in front of students all day every day, no worries, but plunk me down in front of adults and I squirm like an earthworm suddenly exposed to blinding light. I wish I hadn’t let Poppy talk me into this.

  The match begins, so I gotta forget about MacKenzie, forget about the spectators stacked up on the bleachers. No one really cares if my fat jiggles or if I trip over my own shoelaces. The match moves right along, and Poppy and I are holding our own against MacKenzie and Mom. It comes down to the final roll. I take a deep breath and send the ball up the smooth court. A strong toss, it comes to rest two inches to the left of
the pallino. Dewey whoops his approval. I wince but love it all the same.

  As I turn my attention back to the court, MacKenzie releases her beetle-green ball, and darned if it doesn’t thunk into mine. Her ball practically French-kisses the pallino, nailing the win for my sister and mother.

  My stepfather’s bushy white brows descend into a deep vee. I nudge him with my elbow in a friendly way. “S’okay, Poppy. No big deal, right? We had fun, didn’t we?”

  Although he nods, bunched brows say he isn’t convinced. It doesn’t help that my sister is making such a spectacle hollering and fist-pumping, blonde ponytail swinging, spotless white tennies tapping out a victory dance. Darn her, anyway. How does she always manage to look so perfect? I glance at my running shoes, whose soles went gray so long ago they plumb forgot what white is.

  “Knocked you right out of contention, Angela.” MacKenzie’s voice is loud, bordering on unseemly.

  You’d think my forty-nine-year-old little sis had snagged a Super Bowl ring. Our rivalry results, I guess, from our being only slightly less than one year apart in age. I suppose I’m too old to smack her.

  “Congrats. You and Mom played a super match.”

  Poppy leans over until his mouth practically touches my ear. “Who’s that girl?”

  My breath catches. I sneak a sideways glance at my sister—nah, she’s so absorbed by the grand victory she didn’t hear. I tuck Poppy’s arm through mine, herd him quickly to the bleachers, and whisper back, “That’s MacKenzie, Poppy. You raised both of us—remember?”

  Hamilton Squires, known as “Hambone” to his friends and “Poppy” to Mac and me, frowns. “But she doesn’t live with us.”

  “No,” I explain for the fourth time since MacKenzie arrived for the weekend, “she lives in Charleston with her husband. That’s where she raised her children. Your grandchildren.”

  Poppy’s mouth squinches up as if he were sucking one of those lemon drops he is partial to. On the outside, Poppy looks perfectly healthy; inside, deteriorating neural connections are a constant source of frustration. Like forgetting where the bathroom is in the home he’s lived in for six decades. Or figuring out how to transfer soup from the bowl into his mouth. Dewey can plug holes in the drywall, but not even he or the best doctors know how to plug the holes in Poppy’s mind.