Lifting one knee to steady the wheel, Ace'd dip his scarred-up fingers into the pocket of his pit-stained shirt and pull out his makins. Without taking his eyes off the road, he'd peel a Top paper off the pack and spread it out on his long, bony leg. Then, he'd pull the bag of Bull Durham open with his teeth and sprinkle just the right sized row of tobacco crumbs on the paper. He always squinted kinda funny and showed his teeth when he licked the gummed paper, like it didn't taste good, but he rolled a cigarette faster one-handed than most people could do it with two.

           I always chuckled at how he bent a match out of the packet, thumbed it across the emery and lit his smoke, but I got the biggest kick out of how he'd put the match out. Lifting the right side his lip like a snarling dog, "tchitt" he'd spit the flame out with a tiny bead of saliva. Then he'd toss the match and hold the smoldering cigarette up to his squinted right eye and roll it around to check his work.

           "Whaddya think, Spud?" he'd say and look over at me with that same narrow eye as he turned the smoke right in front of my face. "Think it'll burn along alright?"

           I'd have to nod, because the cigarette was always smooth and round as a piece of chalk. Ace Halloran was mighty clever with one hand. He had to be. He only had one hand. One arm. His other one was buried in Korea somewhere. For the hundredth time, I pictured the arm lying in its grave. The image of a man getting his arm blown off by a bazooka shell casing was not easily forgotten by a ten year old. Over against the window, the fist sized lump of flesh and bone-- all that remained of Ace's left arm--lay in the folds of a long sleeve that was held against his ribs with about the biggest hunk of safety pin I'd ever seen.

           When I wasn't watching Ace, I tried to spot something interesting out in the countryside, but the scenery along the old back road never changed much. Sagebrush and boulder flats stretched away for miles on all sides. Only the occasional ragged draw and the blue peaks of the Bitterroots far to the west broke the endless repetition of horizon, and they were so distant and distorted by the waves of August heat, they seemed more like shimmering mirages than a real range of mountains.

           Ace had rolled and smoked at least six of his cigarettes and spun the window down for three times that many spits, when the Waterman ranch finally rose up from the gray surroundings ahead. Lifting one knee to steer again, Ace stomped on the clutch and jammed the old Ford into a lower gear. As the pickup slowed, the billows of road dust chasing us caught up and whorled around us so thickly it was hard to see. Still, at just the right second, Ace grabbed the eight-ball suicide knob on the old Ford's steering wheel, dropped his knee, and twirled the truck onto the Waterman's lane.

           Once we turned clear of the dust, grain stubble spread along both sides of us. The fields had seen a lot more water lately than the road bed behind us had, so things stopped being so cloudy. Still, Ace spun the window down and spit one last time.

           "Gawwwd," he swept his mouth with his one usable sleeve. "I've eat so much dust today my stomach thinks its a damn desert."

           Out the corner of my eye, I saw Dad nod in agreement. He even stopped hum-whispering his song long enough to say, "Yep. A might thick back there, wuddin' it, Ace."

           As the gleaming white paint and red trim of the farmhouse and outbuildings swelled to our approach, I felt one last twinge of regret over having to spend Sunday helping the Waterman's fill grain silos. I'd hoped we could go fishing or head out to sight in a rifle or something. Still, I figured this might be better than hanging out at home. At least I was getting to do something with Dad and Ace. Anyway, the subject wasn't open for debate. As Dad always said, "When a neighbor needs help, help them is what you do." When I'd wondered aloud how someone who lived eight miles away could be your neighbor, he'd just said, "Miles don't excuse bad manners."

           As we pulled into the silo yard, Rollie Stenger stopped shoveling grain out of the deuce-and-a-half long enough to take off his beat-up straw cowboy hat and wave hello. He took advantage of his break by pulling a wad of blue kerchief out of his threadbare Levis and mopping his brow. Then, he jerked his hat back onto his balding head and rejoined his work with two other sweating, t-shirted men. In turn, the men sunk their long-handled scoops into the mountains of yellow. And, in turn, dumped their loads into the hopper of the grain auger.

           We got out of the pickup and took to beating our clothes with our gloves and hats. I hadn't realized how much the breeze through the pickup had kept us cool until I stood in the still air of the silo yard for a moment and felt the incessant pound of the sun. The earthy stench of silage and manure hung thickly in the air. Behind us, Ace's rusted-out truck ticked and sighed with what sounded like terminal overheat, but Dad and Ace didn't seem too concerned, so I wasn't about to say anything.

           We hadn't been out of the truck a minute before the frame of a huge man appeared from behind one of the trucks waiting their turn for the auger and shovels. Smiling and waving, Stanley Waterman half walked, half waddled, over to where we stood beating ourselves clean of the top layers of our unwelcome bentonite glaze. As he huffed and puffed our way, his light gingham work shirt fought to escape the Farmer Johns he had it jammed down into, but the denim of the bibs somehow managed to both hold in the tucks and contain the huge belly that gave source to Mr. Waterman's unpleasant nickname.

           "Howdy do there, Fats," Ace said loudly, never missing a slapping stroke with his glove. "How goes the struggle, Big Guy?"

           "Not bad, Ace. Not bad." The waddling man's tone stayed happy and gave no hint of any reaction to Ace's use of the unkind dub, but his eyes saddened. I doubted Ace meant any offense, but it was easy to tell Mr. Waterman didn't care to be addressed that way.

           "Hullo, Bob," Mr. Waterman said, brightening his smile in my father's direction.

           "Mornin', Stan." Dad nodded towards him and then the work, "Could ya' use some more help, such as it is?"

           "Welcome it. You bet." The big man bowed his rusty-haired head in thanks. "You guys're a Godsend. We're beholden to ya."

           The barn door of a man was so close when he finally noticed me, I could see the mass of freckles covering his round, splotchy face and the jowls of his throat.

           "Hey there, young fella. How ya' doin' today?"

           "Fine Mr. Waterman." I dropped my eyes in the respect for one's elders insisted on in my family, "How are you, sir?"

           "Hot," he said with a wink. "Hot is how I am. I swear the good Lord is trying to melt this fat old man." Somehow, it sounded different when he said it. He winked at me and chuckled, then moved his eyes away from mine as he reached out to shake hands with Dad and Ace. The flesh around his throat jiggled and threw off droplets of sweat as he gripped and pumped each man's hand in turn. As an afterthought, he reached out and softly squeezed my head in his thick, age-spotted paw and gave it a shake, too. I wondered how old you had to be to warrant men shaking your hand instead of acknowledging your presence in some other way.

           "Hell-oooow, Larry," a voice more my own age sang out from somewhere high above us. Blocking sunlight with my handful of gloves, I searched the tops of the three silos that towered from the yard like castles. High up the one the grain auger was stuck into, Harvey Stenger smiled and waved down in the casual, but proud, manner of a lad getting to do an important job.

           "Hey there, Harvey." I hollered, answering his wave with one of my own, "Whatcha' doin way up there?"

           "You'll know soon enough, Spud," Ace snickered. "I 'spect you'll be up there helping him here pretty quick."

           "Really, Dad?" I asked, shifting my gaze from the top of the silo, to Ace's craggy face when he spoke, and then to my father's.

           "We'll see, Son." Dad sent a long, firm-jawed glance Ace's direction. "I'm not sure what Mr. Waterman might need you to do."

           The big man scanned the silo top and gave a jiggling shrug of his ample shoulders, "It's up to you, of course, Bob, but young Harvey could probably use the help and company up there. Don't worry, Son," he said, addressing me again, "there's plenty of catwalk to stand on, stuff to hold on to and..." He pushed his hat back to scratch his head and shifted his gaze back to my father. "... frankly, Bob, I'm not sure where else we could use the boy."

           As if to verify Mr. Waterman's assurances of my safety, Dad looked up and down the sides of the octagonal cylinders that looked to me like white-washed school buses stood on end. I added my eyes to his study of the high, looming walls. Narrow, steel access ladders secured with heavy, square-headed bolts ran from top to bottom. With relief, I noted cage work surrounding the steps all the way, insurance against falling on the climbs up and down at least.

           "What's Harvey doin' up there, anyway?" I craned my neck.

           "Silo monkeyin'," Ace said, before Mr. Waterman or my father could answer. "Poking out air pockets and clearing grain jams." Dad's one-armed friend slurred his words through teeth clenched on the leather glove he was pulling onto his hand. "Right, Fats?"

           "That's about it, Ace." Mr. Waterman nodded and when he did, the floppy gardener's hat shading his fair and freckled skin caught in the sweltering breeze. Its brim flipped up and flattened against the crown of his hat, making me think of Rin-Tin-Tin's master, getting very old and very fat.

           "What do you think, Son?" My father's kind expression guaranteed it was my decision. I'd lose no face with him if I chose not to climb into the sky.

           Intrigued, but unsure, I ran my eyes up the first silo again. Harvey caught my glance and gave me a beckoning wave. He was shirtless. His wild black hair ruffled in the breeze. He looked happy, adventurous, eager for company. He smiled invitingly. Still, I had little doubt of the scornful teasing I'd have to endure if I refused to meet the challenge. He'd tell the other kids I chickened out. I could already hear them teasing me on the playground.

           "Hey, Lar, don't get too high on those monkey bars!"

           "Hey, Lar, don't 'spose you wanna help us build a tree fort, do ya?"

           It'd be just like last summer when a bunch of us had gone swinmming down at the river and Jarvis Hashing wouldn't dive in head first. He got called "Jumpin' Jarvis" for two months and probably would have been called that forever if he hadn't finally slugged skinny little Billy Sanders in the throat so hard the kid couldn't eat for three days. I guess nobody else wanted to suck their lunch up through a straw.

           "Okay," I heard my own voice say, sounding more confident than I really felt. "I guess I'll give it a try."

           "Attaboy," Ace grinned as he smoothed the fit of his glove against one of the long legs of his Levis. "Another silo monkey's born. Good thing some people in this country have some guts."

           A look passed between Ace and Mr. Waterman that I didn't quite understand. But before I could study it further, my father's hand gripped my shoulder and turned me to face him. "Okay, but remember now, son, we're working here, not playin' around. You watch yourself up there, okay?" The lines deepened on Dad's weathered face as he gave his warning. His silver-brown eyebrows scrinched up until they made a single furry line across his forehead. "There's no room for foolishness on a job like this. You hear me, Boy?"

           "Yes, sir. I hear you."

           Then, a kind of wet sparkle filled his eyes and he slapped me on the back. "Keep a good hold on up there, okay? You fall off one of those things and your mother'll shoot us both."

           The first climb made my stomach dance, but some of my fear had eased by the time I followed Harvey up the caged ladder of the second silo. Even so, when I reached the security of the catwalk at the top, enough queasiness remained to add relish to our dizzying, crow's nest view. It seemed I could almost reach out and touch the tops of the mountains. The forbidding desert of sage and stone that three generations of Watermans had carved their oasis of a wheat farm out of, got even bigger when viewed from that height. Harvey smiled at my awe-stricken look.

           "Pretty up here, ain't it." He shared my gaze for a second. "Feller 'kin almost see the ol' Snake from here, can't he?" he sighed, pointing off to the south, he raised his arms and made a big deal stretching, like being up there was nothing to worry about. Then he reached over and knuckle-thumped my hands that were clenched to the railing. "Just relax there, Lawrence. You ain't gonna fall off. It'll seem easy after you've been up here awhile."

           With an assuring wink, he turned back to his job of poking the ten-foot wooden staff into any bubbles that formed as the tubed auger poured more and more grain into the cavern of the silo. My stomach fluttered anew as I stared in at the depths. A steady torrent of gold grain swirled out of the screw tube in a circular stream. Now and again, Harvey would note a clog forming on the end of the auger tube and reach down with the polished brown rod he called "the staff" and whack the end spout until the grain spurted in rhythm again.

           Harvey, the only son of Rollie Stenger, who'd waved at us as we drove in, was only two years older than I was, but he had the added size and strength those years mean to a male. We knew each other from school and we'd been in a few recess basketball and baseball games on the playground together, so we were close enough to be peers. That is, we were so long as no boys nearer to his own grade showed up, and, so long as I paid appropriate homage to his added age and experience. Schoolyard pecking order was not at issue in this case, however. His lack of fear of our elevation, coupled with his skill with the clearing rod was more than enough to earn my respect.

           I looked down at the shovel crew working in the truck below us. My father's t-shirt, as yet cleaner than the dust and sweat-stained ones around him, gleamed like a patch of snow on a sagebrush hill.

           "Sure easy to spot old Single-wing down there, ain't it," Harv laughed as we leaned over the railing and studied Ace's one-armed motion. "Sways sideways more than the others. See? Uses his hip and elbow to help lift the shovel, too. Never misses a beat, though. Look at that," Harvey shook his head, amazed. "Each time his turn rolls around, he's ready." He nudged my ribs so I'd know he was about to say something funny. "Gotta one-hand it to him, don'cha?"

           I felt obligated to chuckle a bit, but I kept it short. Ace was almost a part of our family and making fun of him didn't feel right. For another moment, we watched the shovelers time their strokes as expertly as the roustabouts I'd watched hammer tent stakes at the circus Dad had taken me to. As I stared down, the huge figure that could only be Stanley Waterman emerged from a shed at the edge of the yard.

           "Hey, Harv," I said as I watched the form trudge toward the truck beneath us.

           "What?"

           "Is there some problem 'tween Mr. Halloran and Mr. Waterman?"

           "Whadda'ya mean?" Harvey leaned over the edge of the rail and spit. We watched the silver glob sail at least twenty yards upwind before a puff of dust announced its landing.

           "Oh, I dunno. Just seems like they don't like each other all that much."

           "Oh, you know," Harvey shrugged, "they do and they don't. It's just that old stuff 'bout Ace and Rebecca."

           "What stuff is that?"

           Harv looked at me like I had stupid written on my forehead. "Ain't nobody ever told you 'bout Ace and Fats' wife bein' sweeties before the war?" I shook my head. "Oh, hell, they was s'pose to get married and everything, but Becca's family didn't like Ace. They said it was on account of he wasn't rich enough and didn't own no land or nothin'. But Daddy says it's more 'cause he waddn't ..." Harvey glanced at me long enough to roll his eyes, "... the right religion, ya know?" He waited for me to nod, which I finally did, though I wasn't all that sure what he meant. "So, Ace gets drafted into the marines, goes over to K'rea and gets his arm blowed off. While he's gone, Rebecca, uh, that's Mrs. Waterman's given, ends up marrying Fats, 'ceptin' I guess he wasn't so fat back then."

           I looked back down at the shovel crew and thought over what Harvey had said. "Well, Ace gettin' drafted and goin' to the Marines and all, that was just luck of the draw, wasn't it?"

           The auger chugged and sputtered. Harvey turned away long enough to reach in and jab it twice with the staff. Sweat gleamed on his back as he turned it up to the sun and for the first time I noted a series of thin, white lines running across his ribs. Before I could study them further, he'd turned back to face me again, an odd smile framing his teeth.

           "Yeah, 'cept for one thing." He held up his pointin' finger and wiggled it side to side. "Rebecca's dad just happened to be on the draft board that year." He nodded his head and chuckled when he saw my face change as the words sunk in. "Luck of the draw. Yeah. Right." As if in disgust, Harvey turned and spat over the rail again, but neither of us watched it fall that time. "Anyway," he went on, "I guess ol' Single-wing took it all pretty hard. Even blamed Fats for a while. My ol' man says there was even some trouble after Ace come back from the war, after Rebecca and Fats was already married and all. He says he thinks they they got it all patched up some years back, but nobody really knows," He shrugged and tilted his head off to one side. "Ceptin' them, a' course."

           Two hours later, we'd unloaded a truckful of grain into the second silo. Each of the four sections of the storage tower took about half an hour to fill. Then Harvey would scramble far enough down the ladder to pull out the hooded nose of the tube, lock up that door, open the next one, and guide the auger tube up and into it. Every time he did, his dad would yell at him to be more careful.

           "Damn it, Harvey," he yelled up once. "If you don't slow down on that ladder, Boy, I'm gonna come up there."

           "I'm alright, Dad," Harv yelled back down. "Quit worryin', would ya'?"

           He spoke politely enough then, but when he got back to the catwalk, he said some other stuff that wasn't as nice.

           We were on the topmost door and had that section nearly full as well, when a loud, metallic, clanging rang across the farmyard. It took me a second to recognize the noise as someone running the bar around a dinner triangle, but Harv was wise right off.

           "Yeeee-hawwww!" he hollered and jerked his head around to the noise with a smile spread across his face, "Lunch! 'Bout time, too. I'm starvin'. Come on, Lawrence, let's head down for some chow."

           As fast as I could, but far slower than Harvey's confidently mad scramble, I followed him down the ladder. Once I hit the ground, I raced to catch up with him. For some reason, I felt it was important for us to stride up to the house together.

           When we came through the gate of the yard, Rebecca Waterman and Bess, the family's eldest daughter, stood near the wash line and chattered their welcome and thanks to each man in the crew. After the men had lathered up with big bars of Fel's Naptha, the ladies hoisted galvanized buckets and poured warm water over their soapy hands and arms, maintaining the stream until each crewman had scrubbed and burbled their faces clean as well.

           Across the pole fenced yard, movement caught my eye. A girl, Little Emily, I heard her called later, the Waterman's four-year-old, ignored all the wash basin goings-on and contented herself with pumping higher and higher, back and forth, in the rope and plank seat swing that dangled from the lowest bough of a gnarled weeping willow. With each backwards arc, her yellow skirts shrunk against her legs, outlining her pudgy thighs, then billowed like ruffled, lemon-colored sails as she swooped back down with her red and ribboned hair braids trailing behind like twin tails on a kite. Circling and bouncing around her with its long, pink, tongue a'lolling, a gaunt and patchy screw-tailed pup raced the swing to and fro. Every third trip or so, the little dog got tangled up in its own feet when trying to change directions and took a tumble, which never failed to make the little girl giggle. When she wasn't laughing at the pup and the breeze caught it just right, bits and pieces of her high-pitched rendition of Patty-cake, Patty-cake, Baker's Man drifted over our way.

           Standing there in their hand-sewn dresses and aprons, the hot August wind tousling their straight, dark hair, both Mrs. Waterman and Bess seemed too tall and skinny to be in the same family as a man as big and round as Fats Waterman. From time to time, Rebecca turned her head toward the silo yard. Between one slender thumb and forefinger, she grasped a corner of her apron, ruffling and smoothing its lace-fringed edge over and over. I wondered what she was looking at until I noticed that two of the crew had yet to arrive.

           Our hats held in freshly cleaned hands, man and boy filed in practiced tandem into the spacious white farmhouse and selected a place along the edges of the lunch table, but each one avoided the ends. Custom demanded the landowners would have those chairs.

           Though the scent of fried chicken, oyster stuffing and giblet gravy graced the kitchen like incense, the sweet, yeasty waft of freshly baked rolls and pie held command of the kitchen air.

           Dad noted my eager looks at all the good eats laid out on the long polished oak table and gave me a knowing wink, but, slyly, he also held up the flat of his hand and shook his head to remind me it was not our place to begin until the Watermans gave the signal. As we took our seats and spread linen across our laps, I shared a wide-eyed smile with Harvey, whose eyes had gotten the jump on his stomach as eagerly my own. I'd begun to wonder if we were ever going to get to eat when Bess flounced through the door, saying, "Mama's helping Mr. Halloran wash up, Papa. She says they'll be along in two shakes."

           Her voice rang brightly, but her throat bloomed with just the hint of a flush and her eyes never rose from the table as she spoke.

           "Scrubbin' with one arm prob'ly is a little tough," Luke Miller, who'd come into the yard late with Ace, said, breaking the odd silence that had followed Bess' announcement. "Shoulda' hung around and lent him a hand, I guess."

           Muffled laughter circled the table and Luke looked around in confusion. Then, realizing what he'd said, his crew-cut head flushed crimson. "Oh, I didn't mean ..."

           "It's okay, Luke," Mr. Waterman cut in, "we know what you were tryin' to say."

           The laughter died away as Ace and Mrs. Waterman came in and took their seats. I'd already decided which dish to reach for first after prayer, when another delay heightened my appetite's tension. Mrs. Waterman looked around the table. "Where's little Emily?"

           "Still outside a'swingin', I guess, ma'am." Bess answered, already rising to fetch her.

           Mild jokes and exclamations about the heat dominated the pre-meal conversations until, at last, the Waterman children and the crew were all seated. Mr. Waterman stood at the head of the long table crowded with sundry platters and bowls. Some, like the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, steamed with heat, while others, like the cut-glass dishes of sliced cucumbers in apple cider vinegar and the pitchers of lemonade and tea, beaded up with the chill provided by fist-sized chunks of hand-cracked ice. Mr. Waterman waited for his wife to be seated and the last snatches of conversation to die away, then he squeezed his massive frame into his sturdy oaken chair and closed his hands together in prayer.

           His grace gave thanks to the Lord for both the year's ample grain harvest and the blessing of friends and neighbors who were there to help gather it in. Adding a request for everyone to have a safe trip home when the work was done, he gave the amen, to which we all joined in echo.

           Sharing one last lip-smacking smile with Harvey, I happily joined in with the plate heaping going on around the table. As we ate, Mrs. Waterman and Bess got up time and again to fetch more of anything that began to run short and the men kidded each other about anything they could think of.

           "Fallin' off any old plugs lately, Sam?" Luke piped, reminding everyone of Mr. Poulsen's getting branch-wiped off Stepper, his cantankerous twelve year-old roan gelding, and having to walk three miles home.

           "No Lucas," Sam came back, after the laughter subsided, "but I ain't locked my keys in my car behind the Oasis Bar lately, neither. Your wife still mad about havin' to rack out at one A.M. to come getcha?"

           More laughter rang. Even Ace and my dad added a chuckle or two. As the lunch wore on, I couldn't help envying how Harvey's job as a silo monkey got him into the crew's conversations. Sam asked him about the high school football team's chances the next year and Mr. Waterman inquired about the corn silage job he'd helped with at the Williams Farm last Sunday. I was starting to feel left out, even a bit angry, when Ace finally bailed me out.

           "Hey Sp... uh, uh, Larry, how's the silo monkeyin' goin'? Got over the dizzies yet?"

           I was elated--both at being included and that Ace hadn't called me Spud in front of the crew-- but before I could get enough potatoes and gravy swallowed to answer, Harvey jumped in.

           "Ol' Lar'll be just fine," he chuckled trough a mouthful of stuffing, "soon as he quits squeezing dents in the hand rails."

           I felt a blush grow on my cheeks as everybody laughed, but it passed quickly when Mr. Waterman said, "That's all right, young fella. I'd be nervous up there, too." I wondered if he was only speaking to me when he added, "There's nothing wrong with having a healthy respect for danger."

           The table hushed. A spooky kind of feeling rose around us like steam from a pipin' heap of spuds, but before anyone could say anything else, Bess walked up with a huge platter and shattered the tension with a single word.

           "Pie?"

           Climbing the third silo was easier. I trailed by a mere ten rungs when Harvey stepped onto our last narrow scaffold in the sky. The sun hammered down like a blacksmith. The afternoon landscape soaked up more rays than it could hold and sent the heat back toward the sky's scalding yellow eye in shimmering waves. The white farmhouse, only seventy five yards away from the silo yard, danced and swam in the heat, its window frames melting in and out of square like reflections in a funhouse mirror.

           In the truck below, shovels slowed in the heat. The crew took so many breaks to mop their foreheads and water up, it took almost as long to fill the last silo as it had to gorge the previous two. So our lofty station took on a less hurried pace, as well. The grain poured in more slowly and, as he'd tired of showing off at his important job, Harvey offered to let me have a crack at running the clearing rod.

           With gusto, I agreed and took the staff and started poking at every real and imaginary air bubble I could find. Then, though there was no hint of a clog, I reached down and smote the hooded grain tube as I'd seen my older friend do. Harvey shook his head and snickered at my eagerness.

           "Go git'em Larry. Whack it again."

           He soon tired of watching me and wandered around the catwalk for a while, at times leaning perilously out over the guard rail to peer into the distance as if an undiscovered mystery lay on the horizon. Once, I let my eyes follow his for a little too long, and fear gripped me when I looked down to see that a genuine clog had formed in the auger. In panic, I drove the rod down at its hooded head, but missed so badly the smooth, sweat-polished, staff nearly slipped from my hands. Hoping Harvey hadn't noticed, I aimed and thrust again. That time I hit dead center. The tube coughed, sputtered and swirled the grain out normally again.

           A thrill shot through me. I'd passed my first test. My head swam with visions of becoming a first class silo monkey. As if watching a newsreel in my mind, I saw myself racing up and down the ladder, moving the cobra-headed nozzle of the auger tube from one level to the next, stabbing bubbles, clearing clogs, feasting at lunch tables with the pride that comes from being a valued member of the crew. Next year, I assured myself, I'll be the one.

           Harvey's voice severed my dreams. "Hey, Larry, wanna' do a little silo dipping?"

           "Do what?"

           "Watch this."

           My eyes widened as Harvey climbed onto the edge of the silo, walked his hands out to the center of the inch and a half brace pipe that ran across the top and swung down into the swirling torrent of grain. Like hot oatmeal, the seething mass boiled over his knees.

           "Harvey, I don't think that's a very good idea."

           "Ah, relax Lawrence, nobody'll ever know." He spoke as if I was being a stupid clod. "Sides, I've done it before, lotsa times."

           Imitating the pull ups we did in gym class, Harvey made my stomach roil around like the grain itself as, again, and again, he dipped into the swirling sea of gold beneath him and hoisted himself back out. Each time he went down, his legs plunged in deeper and deeper.

           "Harvey, you're crazy! Get out of there."

           He laughed and dropped into the swirl again. Then, he started counting each plunge as if in a fitness test back in the gym. "One... Two."

           "Come on, Harv," I pleaded, "that's real cool and all that, but you're scarin' the hell out of me. Get out of there. Come on."

           "Five... Six." The grain rolled in. "Nine... Ten." On his twelvth dip it reached his thighs. "Thirteen..." He began to tire, but instead of stopping, he looked at me and winked. "I'll do twenty. Just six more. Fifteen ..."

           The brownish swirl came ever higher, rising from the shadows, brightening as it neared the sun. I glanced at the shovelers below. Four of the five backs bent to their work, but one face gazed upwards with a look of wonder. Harvey Stenger searched the catwalk for the son he couldn't see. "Fourteen..."

           "Hey, your dad's lookin' up here. You better get outta there."

           "Seventeen ..." The grain reached Harvey's pockets on his next dip. A golden tornado, the tiny kernels stormed around his belt loops. "Eight... teen." His voice cracked as he pulled himself out of the sucking swirl. "Nine... teen." Sweat glistened on his upper torso. His eyes squinted with strain. My stomach turned to ice.

           "Twen..." his voice shrilled. The muscles on his arms swelled and knotted, straining to pull him out of the whirlpool one last time.

           "Twen..." he said again, as if the count itself could add some extra measure of strength, but it could not.

           Cords stuck out on his neck as he lifted himself part way out of the maelstrom's grip only to sag back in submission to the pull of the quicksand of fodder. The hissing gtrain passed his belt line where it found its way into the gaps around his thin, well-muscled belly. Harvey's eyes filled with horror as his trousers swelled with grain.

           "Help me!" he hissed through teeth clenched in strain. "Hel..." he tried to say again, but cut himself off with a gasp. He had no strength to waste on words.

           I looked around for something-- anything-- that might help. Seeing nothing, I again looked to the men below. They were all looking up now, sharing Rollie's concern at not being able to see his son.

           I screamed down at them."Stop it! Stop the machine!" My voice sounded like a wailing wind.

           "What? What's going on up there?" Rollie yelled back. "Where's Harvey?"

           "He's hangin' down in the grain! He can't get out. Stop it! Stop the... the screw thing." Finally I remembered and yelled even louder. "The auger! Stop the auger!"

           A man who looked like my father, but everybody's shirts were so dirty by then it was hard to tell, jumped out of the truck and raced to unplug the motor. Behind him, Rollie Stenger leapt to the ground and sprinted for the ladder. I turned back to Harvey.

           Grain boiled around his chest. Sweat dripped from where his hands clenched the pipe. His eyes glazed with strain. Not knowing what else to do, I held out the staff, but Harvey shook his head.

           Through tightly clenched teeth he moaned, "Get help... can't..."

           "Yes you can, Harvey," I pleaded. "Hold on. Help's on the way."

           But somehow I knew he couldn't. His hands began to pull open. His fading strength and the lessening friction of his grip were no match for the heavy pull of the grain. One hand slipped loose.

           "Hurry!" I yelled at his dad who was rising up the ladder, hand over hand with all the speed strong arms and a father's fear for a son can muster. "Hurry, he's starting to slip."

           I looked back. Harvey hung by only the top halves of his right fingers. Then, as if he'd heard someone call his name, his eyes lost their glaze and widened. A strange clarity filled their depths. The lines of strain that had dug into his face seconds before eased. His mouth twisted into a rueful grin. His shoulders flinched in what was either a hint of a last ditch effort, or a shrug of surrender. An odd calmness drained into his face. He looked my way, but his stare passed right through me, chilling my heart like a dark wind. "Can't hold..."

           "Yes, you can!" I screamed. But, even as my words fell into the cavern, so did he. As if still reaching for help, one arm remained locked in its out-stretched pose as he sank beneath the rolling, seething, grain. A pounding heartbeat later, his fingertips blended with the kernels. And he was gone.

           An eerie silence fell over the silo as the grain screw ground to a stop. But soon, concerned voices from below rose like balloons to the sweltering heat of the catwalk.

           "What're you knotheads doing up there?" Ace hollered.

           "Larry, you alright, Son?" came my father's voice at the same time.

           I couldn't tear my eyes away from the silo's mouth. "Harvey!" I wailed into the upright tunnel. A softly hissing silence was the silo's only answer.

           Seconds later, Rollie Stenger scrambled onto the catwalk beside me. Sweating and heaving from the exertion of the climb and shovel work, he leaned over the lip of the silo and peered in. Beneath the streaks of dirt and sweat, his face paled with fear.

           "He's down there," I whimpered, "in the grain. He was doing pull-ups..." I started, but Rollie Stenger had no time for explanations.

           Jerking the long ash staff from my hands, he prodded deeply into the seething, rolling pool of grain below us. Five times he plunged the rod into the depths. His eyes were wild and crazy. Wild and sad.

           "How long?" he asked, looking at me for the first time.

           I stared back at him blankly, not sure what he meant.

           "Damn it, Boy," he screamed, "how long's he been down in there?"

           "Oh, he fell in a couple a seconds before the machine stopped," I stammered.

           Rollie spun away. "He's down in the grain!" Rollie yelled to the men gathered around the base of the silo. Get a saw! Hurry, damn it! A saw!"

           Two men ran in different directions and Rollie Stenger ripped the wooden staff up out of the grain and hurled it down to the ground as if it had somehow been the cause of his son's peril. In a daze, I watched it glance off a tractor and fly half way across the silo yard.

           Rollie leapt back to the ladder and scrambled downward. I thought Harvey had been fast in his descents, but his father doubled that speed. Skipping all but every third step he dropped down the ladder faster than power company men could hook their way down from the tops of poles. I followed him as quickly as I was able, but he was on the ground and running before I'd made it a third of the way.

           When I finally got to where at the men had gathered around the silo's base, Luke held an idling chainsaw. It was yellow and had "McCullough" blazed across it like a banner. Rollie and Sam Poulsen were arguing about where Harvey was most likely to be. Mr. Waterman kept trying to cut in, but they wouldn't stop.

           "Hey! Hey!" he finally shouted them quiet, "Sam!... Rollie!" His voice shook a little, but he still sounded calmer than the other two men had. "Listen to me. The kid oughta be just over to the west," he pointed that direction, "'bout half way round."

           As the rest of us ran around the silo, Mr. Waterman huffed along behind, saying something about how the grain goes down in a spiral so Harvey would most likely be on the opposite side from the loading truck. When we got there, Rollie wasn't convinced. "I don't want nobody cuttin' my son in half. Are ya' sure Fats? Are ya' positive?"

           "Can't be positive, Rollie," Mr. Waterman answered with a shrug, "but that'd sure be my guess.

           "Your guess? Oh, Jesus! ... Your guess?" Rollie's hands flew up to his face, then clenched against his sides. "I don't wanna cut him! Whadda you think, Ace?"

           Ace Halloran raced his eyes up and down the silo once more. "Hell, Rollie, Fats oughta' know."

           "Oh, God. Oh, God." Rollie wrung his hands and stomped his right foot over and over like he was killing a snake. "I'm afraid we'll cut him in half!"

           Jesus, Rollie!" Ace erupted, "If we don't get him outta there pretty damn quick, it ain't gonna matter much if he's cut in half or not." He took one more look up and down the silo. "Gimme that, Luke."

           Ace grabbed the guard handle and tossed the yellow saw up in the air just high enough so he could catch the handgrip and throttle trigger when it came down. Goosing the rumbling McCullough to a roar, he strode to the area of silo wall Mr. Waterman had indicated and hoisted the saw up over his head.

           Rollie Stenger started for Ace as if to stop him, but the huge paw of Stanley Waterman grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. "Let him do it, Rollie." His voice came out like river gravel, smooth, but hard. "It's the boy's only chance."

           Rollie leaned all his weight against the pull of Mr. Waterman's grip. His shirt-tail pulled out, but the material stretched and held. "Don't you cut him, you single-winged sonofabitch!" Rollie screamed over the ear-splitting blare of the saw. "Don't you cut my boy!"

           Ignoring Mr. Stenger, Ace cut a four foot horizontal slash across the silo about seven feet above the ground. His arm muscles bulged and shook from strain and the saw's vibration. Still, he never allowed the cutting bar and chain to penetrate more than an inch or so beyond the wood. The top cut completed, he added a similar cut along the bottom, throttled the saw twice to clear the chain, and started down the right side. Even before the cut was complete, the crack began to widen. Grain spouted out in a vertical fan like water sprays from a split in a garden hose.

           "Stand back boys," Ace goosed the saw again and started the left side down-cut that would complete the rectangular hole. "It'll really start spitting here pretty quick."

           My father's strong hand gripped my shoulder and pulled pulled me to the side.

           Ace leaned into his final cut. Grain, and the dust of grain, showered over him, filling his face, his hair, his shirt. A fountain of wood shavings spun over his shoulder and blended with the torrent leaking out of the silo as the force within widened the gaps the spinning, ripping chain was making. Ace had only cut half way down when the staccato crash and splinter of wood slashed the August air like gunshots. In one piece, the saw-cut rectangle of planking tore open and slammed around against the silo wall, ripping the saw from Ace's hand, crushing its metal shell to pieces against the side of the silo. With a quickness that astonished me, Ace spun and ducked as the wood gave, barely avoiding a fate similar to the saw's. Even so, a jagged edge of the wood ripped an ugly gash along his thumb.

           Hunching his stomach over his wounded hand, Ace slogged out of the thunder of grain and staggered toward where we stood, hawking up grain dust as he came. He was still two steps away when a piece of saw housing fluttered down and landed at his feet like a greasy, yellow saucer. As if he'd expected it to be there, Ace leaned over and spat the wad of grain dust into it.

           There was nothing to do then but watch the river of grain funnel out onto the yard in a hissing roar. Before even a tenth of the contents had spilled out, Harvey emerged. I thrilled at the sight of his bright blue Levis, even though they still bulged with grain. But joy gave way to horror when I saw how similarly colored the rest of him was. His upper body was one big, purple, bruise. Only his black hair and the bright crimson stains around his ears and mouth varied Harvey's dull blue scheme.

           Rollie Stenger sobbed uncontrollably as he waded into the waterfall of grain and dragged his son from the flood. He went silent for a second when he rolled him over and looked into a face that still stared at death's dull surprise. Grabbing him by the shoulders, Rollie shook his dead son again and again, as if he could shake life back into Harvey's rag-doll of a body.

           After a moment, my father squeezed my shoulder to tell me to stay where I was and walked over to wrap his arm around Mr. Stenger and pull him away.

           "He's gone, Rollie. It's all done. Nothin' you can do."

           Rollie trembled and stumbled as Dad and the other men surrounded him and guided him over to sit on the running board of the nearest pickup.

           In the stupor of someone seeing death for the first time, I stood alone, staring at Harvey's body. Endless, uncaring, the grain continued to flow from the silo. As it pushed outward, its domain expanded laterally, fanning out, reclaiming Harvey's body, flowing around him until he seemed a two-legged island of bulging blue in a vast ocean of shimmering gold.

           "Pretty, pretty," a little girl's voice murmured off to my left.

           Without moving my eyes, I watched the fat, stubby, legs of Emily Waterman furrow their way into the edge of the spreading grain. Red hair hung over her toes as if she were trying to look down through the grain and see her shoes. A few steps later, she stopped to gaze down at the blue humps of Harvey's Levis. Lifting one tiny foot she reached it out as if to nudge the form, but before she could, Bess' long-limbed form swooped in like a hawk from the sky and snatched up the pudgy redhead. In what seemed the same movement, she turned and struck out for the farmhouse. I didn't turn to watch them go. I still couldn't take my eyes from the scene in front of me.

           "How come that man seepin' there?" Emily's voice drifted back on the wind. "How come, Bessie? How come?"

           "Never mind, Sissie. He's..."

           Bess said something else, but I never got to hear it. A hand closed on the back of my neck. The fingers were hard and raspy, but the touch was gentle. Ace pulled my head around and forced my eyes away from Harvey.

           "Come on, Spud, let's go over here. You don't wanna look at that."

           We walked over behind one of the trucks. He still held my neck in his hand. Drops of his blood fell on my back like sparse rain. "You okay, Boy?" Ace's eyes dug into me, solemn and caring, yet heavy as the heat of an August sun.

           "I guess so." My voice didn't sound right. I cleared my throat. "How 'bout you, Ace? Your hand ..."

           "Aw, it ain't nothin," he cut me off. "You sure you're alright?"

           "I tried to help him, Ace," I pleaded. "It just happened so fast. I ..."

           "Hey now, none of that." His fingers tightened on my neck. "This here was young Harvey's doin', not yours. He was a good enough kid, but he was a show-off and everybody knows it. His dad's been hollerin' at him about it for years. Even licked him good for it a time or two. Didn't do no good."

           He leaned against the truck and sighed. A hank of dark hair, thick as molasses with sweat and dirt and grain fell across his brow. He wiped it back, unknowingly streaking his face with blood. "Some of life's lessons is hard, Spud." His bloody hand found the nape of my neck again and he pulled me closer until the cactus of his cheek gouged my face. "In fact, some of 'em can pound you clear to powder." Ace shook his head slowly and his eyes lifted and seemed to be watching something. I turned just in time to see Bess pack Little Emily into the fenced yard of the house. Rebecca Waterman stood at the gate and stared our way. Both her hands pressed against her mouth. Ace looked back into my eyes and squeezed my shoulder, but I didn't think he was talking to me when he muttered, "But that's better'n dust to dust, I guess." He raised his eyes to look beyond me again. "Better'n dust to goddamn dust."

           Tears tried to sneak out the corners of my eyes, but I fought them back. I didn't want to cry in front of Ace. Someone came around the truck from behind us about then. I know they did. I saw their reflection in Ace's eyes, but by the time I'd twisted free of his grip and turned, there was no-one there.

           The breeze had left the country by the time everyone was back at the farm house. Only the shade of the screened porch shielded us from the heat. Rebecca Waterman's eyes glistened and her lips quivered a little, but her thin-fingered hands held steady as she wrapped tape and gauze around Ace's thumb.

           "You're a damn fool. You know that Ace Halloran?" Her chin jutted out as she scolded him, square as the jaws on the people in the wagon train painting down at the museum. "Couldn't somebody with two hands run that cursed saw?"

           "It's alright, Rebecca." I'd never heard Ace's voice be so low and smooth before. He looked down to where his only hand rested on the blood-stained towel in her lap. "It's just a cut, Becca. It'll heal."

           "I think what he done was brave." Bess Waterman walked up. Her eyes flashed narrow across her mother's and landed on Ace's where they held and softened. As if it was an effort to pull her eyes away, she tossed her head hard enough to make the ropy sheaves of her thick, brown hair fall over her other shoulder. "At least he tried to save the poor boy," she added, reaching down to intercept Little Emily, fast on her way to being in her mother's road. Bess' slender arms hoisted and hugged the chunky child. Emily squealed happily and burrowed her face into her sister's neck. Their hair mixed and mingled into a contrasting tousel of coffee and rust.

           Mrs. Waterman glanced up from her wrappings and squinted at Bess. I thought she was going to say something. She didn't, but the glance she shared with Ace a heartbeat later, did.

           No-one on the porch spoke for a moment, so we heard parts and patches of the sadness being shared over the telephone wire as they drifted out an open window.

           We didn't mention Harvey on the way home. Dad didn't sing, either. And Ace didn't drive as fast. Ace did other things more slowly, too. The wrappings on his thumb made it hard for him to roll his smokes, but he still managed. I guess he couldn't get them tight enough to smoke right, though, because after he'd sucked in the first drag or two, he'd always cuss, crank down the window and spit out grains of tobacco. Every time he did, more dust boiled into the cab. Pretty quick, he'd have to lift a knee up to steady the wheel, wind the window down, and spit again. It wasn't doing any good, but I couldn't see much point in saying anything about it. I knew how much Ace Halloran hated dust.

Please post a message on our community bulletin board, or send email to editor@serpentinia.com to let us know what you think about this story, and we'll pass your message along to the author. 

Home || Current Issue || Prior Issues || Writing Contest || Staff || Links || Rings

© 1998 Serpentine. All rights reserved.