The Last Bed of the Harvest

The corner

It took them about forty minutes to bring bed 9 into the corner. Nobody talked much. Every so often Grandpa would say “east a little” or “hold,” and Keith would say “got it,” and they would lean again.

When the berries were packed tight against the dike at the corner, Tina started the pump, and the long hose began to pull them up out of the water, through the cleaner and into the truck.

That sound, the hum and rattle of the berries going up, is the sound of a harvest being finished.

Eli and I walked down the dike to the corner to watch. Eli still had his basket clutched against his chest. He had not put it down once.

Keith helped Grandpa up out of the bed. He did not grab him or lift him.

He just stood below him in the water and offered his shoulder, and Grandpa put his hand on it and climbed out on his own. Rudy came up right after, close behind.

Grandpa sat down on the grassy bank. He was breathing hard. His face was red from the work, and his flannel was wet to the elbows, and he looked like himself again.

Keith stood in front of him in the water, waist deep, with the berries rolling past him toward the pump.

“I found you in that ditch,” Keith said. He said it low, but I was close enough to hear. “Your cap was floating. I thought you were dead, Dad. I have not been that scared since Mom.”

“I know, son,” Grandpa said.

“I’d rather have you mad at me than drowned,” Keith said. “I’d rather have you sitting at your kitchen table hating me than lose you in my own ditch. And the bank, and the insurance. If something happens to you out here, I lose the marsh. Your marsh.”

“I know that too.”

“So what was I supposed to do?”

Grandpa looked at him for a long moment. Then he looked out over the empty bed, where the water was clearing and the vines were showing through, green and red underneath.

“You were supposed to ask me,” Grandpa said. “That’s all. Not tell the crew. Not tell the insurance man. Ask me. I’ve been deciding what I’m willing to risk on this ground since before you were born.”

Keith put his head down. For a minute I thought he was going to walk away. Instead he reached out and put his wet hand on his father’s knee, on top of the new waders.

“I should have asked you,” he said.

“Well,” Grandpa said. “You’re asking now.”

What Keith said to the crew

When the last of the berries had gone up the hose, Keith climbed out of the bed.

He walked a few steps up the dike so the whole crew could see him. Rudy, Marcus, Joe, Tina. The same four people he had stood in front of a month ago.

He did not make a speech. My uncle is not a speech man. He just put his hands on his hips and looked at the four of them for a second.

“I said something in September,” he said. “In front of all of you. About my dad. I’m taking it back.”

Nobody said anything. Tina nodded.

“From now on, Dad works the last bed every year,” Keith said. “As long as he wants to. And I’ll be on the other end of the boom.” He looked at Rudy. “And you’ll be on the deep side, if you don’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Rudy said.

“Nobody’s done here,” Keith said. “Nobody’s going anywhere. I’m sorry I said it.”

That was all. He turned around and walked back to the pump to check the hose, the way he always does when he has said more than he wants to.

I looked over at Grandpa. He was sitting on the bank in his new waders with his seed cap pushed back, watching his son walk away. He did not smile, exactly. But his whole face had gone soft.

“Well, Molly,” he said. “That’s a good crop.”