Jacob stepped out onto the stoop and hung onto the top stair rail with both hands. He looked down at Job as if he’d never left the pulpit. Even now, resting at home, he wore a town shirt and striped tie. Perspiration circles ringed each underarm. A tense smile etched into his huge face. He could have been the old man himself.
“You get Carlson in to do crop-dusting?” he asked Job.
“No.” He watched the plane fly over the silos. “I got a letter from the girl I told you about. From the radio show.”
Jacob watched the plane fly over the north quarter as if he hadn’t heard. “So what’s he doing?”
“Just giving us a show, I guess.”
“He’s flying like he sees something. Keeps going over that same spot. Could be a cow down. Or a grass fire.”
“No smoke.”
Job’s tortoiseshell cat, Grace, was at the screen door, meowing to be let out. Job had removed the screen at Lilith’s request, as she didn’t like the ratty look of it, but he hadn’t got around to putting the new screen in. The cat could have hopped through the hole to go outside but from habit sat there waiting for someone to open the door.
“You going to find out what Carlson’s after, or what?” said Jacob.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Job followed the cow trail towards the field Carlson seemed to be interested in. He passed a patch of scorched grass, fire-blackened fence posts. A discarded box of Redbird matches. Ben’s handiwork. He looked back to see Ben and Jacob, following at a distance. Carlson’s plane buzzed low overhead.
Job trotted up a small rise, found himself staring down at a swirling depression in the barley field, as if God had pressed the barley flat with his finger, leaving his seal of approval for Job’s date with Debbie Biggs.
Ben caught up to Job just as he stepped into the centre of God’s fingerprint. “Cool! A crop circle!” Job’s shoulders fell.
Of course
.
The plane landed with a bump and a hop in the hay-field just as Jacob walked up to meet Job and Ben. He had a limp and the rocking gate of the obese, his joints giving out after years of holding up his weight. “Why’s this barley lodged?” he asked. “You tramp it down?”
“No.” But Job at once felt guilty, as if he
had
made the circle himself.
“You put too much fertilizer here?”
Carlson climbed the fence and walked through the grain towards them in cowboy boots, sunglasses, a short-sleeved western shirt and jeans with grass-stained knees. A bad case of helmet head. “You got a crop circle!” He squatted down, placed the palm of his hand over flattened barley. Nicotine stains on his fingers, dirt under the nails. A couple of skinned knuckles. “It’s hot. Can you feel the heat?”
“It’s sunny,” said Jacob. “The plants are absorbing the heat.”
“Probably radiation,” said Carlson. “Shouldn’t let the kid too close.” Although Arnie wasn’t known for his concern over safety. Annie Carlson complained that each spring, when her husband came home from a day of crop-dusting, stinking of weed spray, she had to get him to undress outside the house or all her houseplants would wilt.
Ben hunched down beside him, put a hand to the barley. “It
is
hot!”
“It’s hot ’cause it’s sunny,” said Job.
Ben shook his head. “Aliens.”
“The kid’s right,” said Carlson. “They leave this tell-tale mark when they land. Their ships flatten the grain. Or sometimes they’re trying to communicate with us, by drawing pictures in the fields. They’ve been landing for years, see, but only started communicating with us about five years ago, when they started drawing pictures in fields in England. Now they’re talking to us! I hope you don’t mind. I radioed this in. Pete said he’d call ITV news.”
“There’s no such thing as aliens,” said Jacob.
“Sure there are,” said Carlson.
“They’re not aliens,” said Jacob, his voice easing intopastoral authority. “They’re demons trying to make
“You get Carlson in to do crop-dusting?” he asked Job.
“No.” He watched the plane fly over the silos. “I got a letter from the girl I told you about. From the radio show.”
Jacob watched the plane fly over the north quarter as if he hadn’t heard. “So what’s he doing?”
“Just giving us a show, I guess.”
“He’s flying like he sees something. Keeps going over that same spot. Could be a cow down. Or a grass fire.”
“No smoke.”
Job’s tortoiseshell cat, Grace, was at the screen door, meowing to be let out. Job had removed the screen at Lilith’s request, as she didn’t like the ratty look of it, but he hadn’t got around to putting the new screen in. The cat could have hopped through the hole to go outside but from habit sat there waiting for someone to open the door.
“You going to find out what Carlson’s after, or what?” said Jacob.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Job followed the cow trail towards the field Carlson seemed to be interested in. He passed a patch of scorched grass, fire-blackened fence posts. A discarded box of Redbird matches. Ben’s handiwork. He looked back to see Ben and Jacob, following at a distance. Carlson’s plane buzzed low overhead.
Job trotted up a small rise, found himself staring down at a swirling depression in the barley field, as if God had pressed the barley flat with his finger, leaving his seal of approval for Job’s date with Debbie Biggs.
Ben caught up to Job just as he stepped into the centre of God’s fingerprint. “Cool! A crop circle!” Job’s shoulders fell.
Of course
.
The plane landed with a bump and a hop in the hay-field just as Jacob walked up to meet Job and Ben. He had a limp and the rocking gate of the obese, his joints giving out after years of holding up his weight. “Why’s this barley lodged?” he asked. “You tramp it down?”
“No.” But Job at once felt guilty, as if he
had
made the circle himself.
“You put too much fertilizer here?”
Carlson climbed the fence and walked through the grain towards them in cowboy boots, sunglasses, a short-sleeved western shirt and jeans with grass-stained knees. A bad case of helmet head. “You got a crop circle!” He squatted down, placed the palm of his hand over flattened barley. Nicotine stains on his fingers, dirt under the nails. A couple of skinned knuckles. “It’s hot. Can you feel the heat?”
“It’s sunny,” said Jacob. “The plants are absorbing the heat.”
“Probably radiation,” said Carlson. “Shouldn’t let the kid too close.” Although Arnie wasn’t known for his concern over safety. Annie Carlson complained that each spring, when her husband came home from a day of crop-dusting, stinking of weed spray, she had to get him to undress outside the house or all her houseplants would wilt.
Ben hunched down beside him, put a hand to the barley. “It
is
hot!”
“It’s hot ’cause it’s sunny,” said Job.
Ben shook his head. “Aliens.”
“The kid’s right,” said Carlson. “They leave this tell-tale mark when they land. Their ships flatten the grain. Or sometimes they’re trying to communicate with us, by drawing pictures in the fields. They’ve been landing for years, see, but only started communicating with us about five years ago, when they started drawing pictures in fields in England. Now they’re talking to us! I hope you don’t mind. I radioed this in. Pete said he’d call ITV news.”
“There’s no such thing as aliens,” said Jacob.
“Sure there are,” said Carlson.
“They’re not aliens,” said Jacob, his voice easing intopastoral authority. “They’re demons trying to make
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