Ripened

Aubrey grew up on a farm, much like the other folks who lived in the area of Maine known as “the county”.

School days off for the potato harvest, she could drive any tractor she was placed on, but her favorite was the red and cream colored Ford 8N. On occasion, she would take the vehicle to school, and put it right next to the bikes, ATVs, and horses the kids kept outside.

School was school; bland and boring. Math classes with a woman who strongly resembled a stereotypical witch — crooked nose, dead eyes, a sickly smile, long creeping fingers, and so thin that she could disappear from student vision at the drop of a hat. Aubrey wasn’t a fan of Ms. Doll, which was a shame, because she liked math. She liked counting money, and crops, and figuring out how much yield she could get from a plot of land. Her English teacher, Mrs. Quatermagne had her working on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow for the fall season. Mr. Hawkins was spouting some long exposition regarding the politics of the Reign of Terror and Robespierre. Ms. Healey taught Spanish, which was useful; there were many Spanish speaking peoples who would come to the county for work during the harvest — one of her best friend, Christian was from Honduras. And Mrs. Bork was teaching her about advanced forensic pathology.

Her senior year was coming to an end, but her future held little change. She wanted to go to the University of Maine in Presque Isle to study Agriculture and Botany. “I want to end world hunger.” she would say often. Aubrey had always been close to her Grandfather, a victim of the Great Depression, and he would eat anything. When she was young, she saw him go to a crab apple tree and eat three of the unripe, bitter, bruised fruit. Even as a youth, this made her think of the people around the world struggling to find food. Aubrey had the solid, and valid belief, that humans had come too far to die starving.

At the chime of the last school bell, Aubrey raced by her compatriots and out to her tractor. Lighting the ignition, the gear shift was rather static. If she wanted, she could pop the vehicle straight into fifth gear which would usually roar into a mighty, and dangerous wheelie. The brake and the clutch were the same so to speed up, she’d have to come to a complete stop first. Normally she cruised in third until she got to the road, and would ride the tarred shoulder in fifth. It was mid October, and the spuds were ready to pull. As she passed one of the neighbor’s fields, she noticed a group of men all chained together. Their orange jumpsuits sticking out like creamsicles on a chocolate brown field. They were doubled over and covered with dust.

A little black mass was curled at the end of the drive at the edge of the field. It sat just below a wooden sign that read, “Reading.” As Aubrey approached the creature, its ears perked up, and eye contact was made. The ebony cat was missing a part of his ear, and there was a scratch across its eye. The amber orbs studying Aubrey, animal instincts scanning her, measuring whether she was a friend or foe.

Was he hit by a car, Aubrey thought. Reaching out to the cat, it pressed against her hand; it purred with pleasure and rubbed her leg, marking Aubrey with its scent. Aubrey picked up the sat, who pushed into her chin, and tickled her cheeks with long whiskers.

Aubrey cradled the feline in her arm and remounted the tractor. Turning down the dirt road, the engine puttered along at a melodious, almost trace-like state. Her mind began to wander, and it wasn’t until she saw all the cars in her drive she realized something amiss. Four pick-up trucks from various neighbors and her father’s, mom’s minivan, grandpa’s Ford Falcon Ranchero. In the shade of the great maple that sat at the edge of their yard was an old, black Chevrolet. It almost disappeared in the afternoon shadow. The house itself was a cream colored, and archaic thing. It was built in 1888, it had that classic “old farmhouse” look, some of the shingles had come off in last week’s storm. Paint was peeling, but to her it was a castle.

Aubrey saw the driver of the Chevy. He was a tall, pale man. He had gray hair that was combed back in a 1930s style, and his suit reflected his own look — angular, and sharp. Within his face she could find no faults with the exception of some wrinkles. His arm hooked around her grandfather, Earl Reading; they were chatting casually, like two old friends reminiscing.

“Grampy!” she semi-shouted. She had not seen him looking so chipper in a long time. His eyes bright, and smile gleaming. He did not answer, he continued chatting with the fellow. Aubrey noticed that he was missing his cane, his chronic limp absent.

“He cannot hear you my friend.”

“Why not? Are his hearing aids off?”

“You’ll see… He is going to come with me for a little while. Don’t worry child, you and your folks will be along shortly.”

“O-okay.”

The man smiled wryly, “Oh, hello Felix.” His eye line falling down Aubrey to the cat at her heels.

Aubrey watched as the two got into the car. She heard her grandfather chuckle boisterously. Earl and Aubrey made eye contact, he smiled, and buckled in. The car drove off, and it wasn’t until then she realized that the bugs and birds had been utterly silent. It was like someone pressed play on the world, and everything was back to normal — Felix disappeared. Aubrey walked inside the house, everyone was gathered in the living room. Dr. Boyle gave them all the long face, announcing that Earl Reading, who was laying on the couch, was deceased.

Aubrey knew who the man was.

Over the next few years she went off the college, and got her desired degree. She traveled to South America, learning about tropical plants. Africa for roots and tubers. China for a new species of ginseng that was engineered in a lab. And Aubrey grew old among the plants, and ivy, and stems. She spent much of her career helping create programs to feed folks, reaping what was sown.

The old woman retired at her family home, and was declining in health — the “Big C” had come for her. As she lay in her bed, weak and weary-eyed, she notice a little black mass scurry along the drive — the omen of ‘him’.

Then it came — the black Chevrolet.

Death exited the vehicle and looked up at the window, the same face, the same wry smile. He lifted his hand, and made for the door.

He was right, I didn’t need to worry.