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Caragin Farm

By Renee Hodges

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Wednesday, May 15, 2019


He could have been my son. Stop it. Work . . . don’t think.

Liz Caragin hovered over the strawberry plants, hands on autopilot, folding back vines, plucking bright red fruits, and tossing them into the bucket beside her. At the end of the row, a Caragin Farm branded wagon with two other buckets brimming over with lush, ripe berries waited.

The face of the delivery man at her door this morning pulsed like a strobe light through her brain. Scribbling the date beside her signature on his device jolted her memory. May 15. The due date of her first child. That young man would be about the right age. And his dimples creased his smooth, dark skin when he smiled, just like the baby’s teenage father. The cobweb-covered secret smacked her heart, and her deep brown eyes watered as she worked.

What else could I have done? I was just a baby myself. Still . . .

Resting back on her heels, Liz wiped a worn leather glove across her sepia-brown cheeks. Gauzy spring clouds allowed the late morning Alabama sun to fulfill its purpose. Sweat beaded her forehead. Wet circles splotched her light denim shirt. She closed her eyes and slowed her breaths. Her attention turned from the hole in her heart to the ache in her back. Garden therapy was working.

God’s forgiven you already, Liz. Kick the devil out of your head.

With a shake of her head, she pushed herself up and brushed the dirt from her jeans. She’d just snugged the third bucket into the wagon when she spotted her husband coming her way. As he’d done for the last twenty-eight years, Jim smiled as if she were an oasis in the middle of the desert.

Would he still smile at me like that if he knew? No time to dwell on that. Had she gotten all the tears? She pivoted to give her face a final swipe, staring out into the field. Game face on. His hands landed firmly on her waist and turned her body. She tilted her head into his to accept his kiss on her forehead.

“Hey, baby.” His mouth brushed past her ear and grazed over her cheek. Stepping back, he pulled a smackerel of soil from his lips with his white, farm-callused fingertips. “Mmm, you taste like dirt. And your mama didn’t think you’d ever be a farm girl.” His blue eyes sparkled with the tease, but his smile faded when she didn’t respond with the giggle he probably expected. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just trying to get the ripe ones before it gets to eighty-five.” Avoiding his eyes, she forced a smile and turned for the house. “I better get in and get lunch going. You can grab the wagon.”

Jim took the wagon handle in one hand and her hand in the other. “Just a little warning . . . the kids already started working on lunch.”

As the sprawling white farmhouse came into view, Liz counted four of her brood spreading cloths over picnic tables beneath a centuries-old oak. Wait. Was that? She gasped at the unexpected sight of one of the girls, smacked Jim on the shoulder, and rushed to embrace their oldest daughter.


***


“Oh, yeah.” Jim snickered at the breeze left in her wake. “Did I mention Laurel’s home?”

Jim grinned as he pulled the wagon nearer the tables. Liz still had Laurel in a tight grip, rocking back and forth and cooing exuberant mama words. Laurel craned her head past her mother’s arms and mouthed, “Help me.” He shrugged his helplessness to interfere as he continued to the house.

Familiar strains of discontent wafted through the kitchen’s screen door before he opened it. He deposited the berry buckets in the farmhouse sink as a roomful of voices pleaded with him to take their sides in the lunch prep controversies.

Jordan, the fourteen-year-old self-appointed catering queen, implored. “Dad, tell him it has to be set up so everyone moves clockwise.”

“It . . . is . . . lock . . . wise!” Ten-year-old Sam yelled in the clipped syllables his autism speech therapist had taught him. He further defended himself by swirling his arm around in a definite counter-clockwise circle.

Peanut, their youngest, blinked her big, brown eyes and whined, “Dad, Coop’s putting mustard in the tater salad. I’m ’lergic to mustard.”

“You aren’t allergic. You just don’t like it. There’s a difference. Dad, tell her.” Cooper, the oldest in the kitchen, paused with a squirt bottle of French’s yellow in the grip of his prosthetic hand and a mischievous glint in his eyes as he awaited his father’s judgment.

Over Cooper’s shoulder, Jim caught sight of Beth loading her twin sister down with sandwich fixings at the fridge. He opened his mouth to shout a warning as he watched the missed handoff. The industrial-size pickle jar slipped through their hands to the floor. The sound of shattering glass—not at all strange in a home that raised fifteen kids—silenced the room.

Jim took control. “Everyone, move slow, be careful. It’s okay.” He winked at his eleven-year-old twins, grabbed a towel, and began corralling the pickles and glass. “Jordan, get the broom and dustpan. Darius, bring the trash can over. Sam, your sister is right about how the food goes, and Cooper, for goodness’ sakes, scoop some salad out for Peanut before you put in the mustard. You know she hates it.”

“Uh, Dad?” Marshall’s voice came from the doorway to the living room. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Jim raised his head to see his twenty-year-old next to an Asian-American thirtysomething man. With his round glasses, half-shaved hairstyle, designer satchel, and skin-tight khaki capris, he looked like an alien from another world in the chaotic country kitchen.

“Mr. Caragin, I’m so sorry to interrupt.” The man smiled, stepped into the kitchen, and extended his hand. “You said I could drop by anytime today. I’m L. Chandler Lee. We spoke on the phone.”

Recognition set in. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember now.” Jim stood and offered a hand with a pickle juice-soaked towel to the visitor. He rolled his eyes as all the kids laughed.

Jim made his way to the sink with the dripping towel. “Sorry about that. Guess we can shake hands in a minute. We’re just getting lunch ready. I would say it ain’t normally like this, but that’d be a lie. Marshall, why don’t you show Mr. Lee out to the patio until we get all cleaned up?”

The newcomer offered another option. “Actually, I’d be happy to help. I’ve cleaned up my share of messes. And you can call me Chandler.”

Without waiting for a reply, Chandler dropped his satchel, grabbed a towel, and bent down to work. Jim exchanged glances with his kids and nodded his approval. Lunch prep resumed, minus the fussing and bickering.

Jim noticed Sam staring at the visitor. No telling what was running through his mind, but Jim knew he only needed to wait a minute to find out. Sure enough, after some processing, Sam sidled up to his father and not-so-subtly voiced his concern, “Dad, what’s . . . wrong . . . with his . . . pants?”


***


If not for the windshield, Elliot Caragin would have bugs in his teeth because nothing could stop him from smiling. He drummed on the steering wheel of the new-to-him Jeep Wrangler, the sun warming and the breeze cooling his face as he whizzed by farm after farm on the highway he knew pothole by pothole. Johnnyswim blared from the speakers as he and Bekah headed to Caragin Farm.

Bekah. The best part of his happy place. Elliot kept his eyes on her more than he did the road. Her shoulder-length raven hair swirled around her face as she closed her green eyes and leaned into the seatback, soaking in the springtime sunlight. Her feet, propped up on the dash, tapped in rhythm to the music while she sang, not caring which key she landed in.

When she attempted for the umpteenth time to tuck her hair behind her ear, he studied the fingers he’d held as often as possible during the last ten months. The one he intended to put a ring on soon had a sliver of dirt beneath the nail, a leftover from her morning spent transplanting the seedlings they were taking to his parents. Or could it be chocolate from the pies she made last night? Regardless, he loved that finger.

She dropped her hand to the gearshift between them, and he covered it with his right hand. With her early spring tan, her white skin almost matched the latte shade created by his black and white genes. She opened her eyes and pulled her hand from beneath his to stroke the dimple of his right cheek.
“I like your Jeep.” She returned his grin, flashing her own dimples.

“I think it likes you.” Elliot’s cheeks warmed and he turned his attention to the road. Would flirting with her always have this effect on him? At least he didn’t lose his words anymore—like he did last summer when they first met.

He nodded to a sign indicating an upcoming rest area. “You need to stop?”

“I’m good. Just about an hour to go, right?”

“Yep. Hopefully, right after they start eating.”

Bekah laughed. “I know you hate missing out on the prep time.”

“Yeah, you know it. My least favorite part of growing up. Well, except for waiting for a bathroom. You’ll see what I mean.”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of excited about spending the summer with them. My family’s so small. Guess every family’s small compared to yours, though.”

“Truth. I think you’ll like it for a little while but, girl, the bathrooms are an issue. Especially since you grew up with your own suite.”

“Stop it. You make it sound like a Hilton. The reason I had my own bathroom was because I was the only girl.”

“And the baby.”

“Don’t be jelly, oldest child.”

“You’ll be the jelly one when I leave you at the farm and go back to Whitman, to my own place with my own fridge and my own bathroom and my own bedroom. You’re gonna miss your apartment over the Bait Shop.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Elliot. A crowded house is a small price to pay. I’m just thankful your dad’s letting me work there this summer. I could be stuck working garden centers at Wal-Mart or Lowe’s to finish my landscape design certificate like most of the others in the program.”

“Well . . . I did put in a good word for you.” Elliot raised and lowered his eyebrows.

“Hmmm. Yep, I guess you do deserve something for that.” Bekah unbuckled, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. “How’s that?”

“It’s a start, I guess.” Elliot tousled her hair. “Now, put your seatbelt back on, lawbreaker.”

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