The Harvest

“Fine,” Joey said. “Just tell me you’ll stay away from her and we can go downstairs.”

Matt was suddenly, deeply tired of all this. The storm, Miriam, Jacopetti, Joey. It was all a single phenomenon, and it was too much; it made him weary. He dropped the pharmaceuticals and stepped forward.

Joey thrust the knife wildly. The blade nipped his forearm, slicing his shirt, digging into the skin beneath—a vivid, immediate pain.

Matt stepped back and came up against a shelf. The walls were mercilessly close, there wasn’t room to swing his arms, and Joey was poised at the entrance like a snake.

But Mart’s resentment was irresistible. It propelled him forward. The situation was childish, inappropriate, a frustration not to be borne. He kept his eye on Joey’s knife hand and thought about getting inside the periphery of it, knocking Joey out of the way. In the corridor he would have room to maneuver.

He took a second step forward. Joey shrieked, “Don’t make me do this,” and slashed the air. The knifepoint missed, but narrowly. “Just say you’ll stay away from her! That’s all you have to do! That’s—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. There was suddenly a taller silhouette behind him—Tom Kindle.

Kindle twisted Joey’s arm up behind his back until Joey yelped and opened his hand.

Matt came out of the supply cupboard and backed away from the two men.

Kindle pushed Joey against the wall of die corridor and let him go. Joey spun around. Slowly, Kindle moved away, hands spread. Then he bent and picked up the knife. Peered at it.

“Swiss Army knife,” Kindle said. “Real good, Joey. After you kill him, you can trim his nails.”

“Fuck,” Joey said, rubbing his abused arm, “I didn’t come up here to kill anybody.”

Matt clamped his hand over the cut on his forearm. It was superficial but messy. He’d left a trail of blood spots on the green linoleum floor.

Kindle shook his head. “You came a little too close, in that case. Stupid thing to do. Wave a knife at somebody! There’s only ten of us in town, Joey, is that too many for you?”

No answer.

“Is there some reason you came up here?” Joey nodded. “He fucked Beth.”

Kindle did a small double take. Then he pocketed the knife. “Matt? Any truth to the charge?”

“I taught her CPR,” Matt said. “She’s been getting first-aid training.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Joey said.

“What do you hear?”

“I hear the doctor’s fucking her.”

“Who told you that?”

Self-righteously: “Beth did.”

There was a momentary silence… if you could call it silence, Matt thought, with the wind banging the walls.

Kindle said, “Joey… a woman might say a thing and not mean it. Especially if she thought she was being neglected. A woman might think, What would piss off Joey the most? What could I say to really aggravate this asshole who hasn’t even asked me the time of day since Christmas?”

Joey seemed to ponder the idea. Maybe, Matt thought, on some level, he was flattered by it.

“I just wanted to warn him.…”

“Warn him what? That you’ll kill him if he hangs around your ex-girlfriend?”

“Fuck you,” Joey said mildly.

“Fuck me because I don’t want the town doctor knifed by a jealous asshole? Christ’s sake, Joey, how is it even your business what Beth gets up to? She’s not your wife, and even if she was, adultery’s not a capital crime. You were pissed off and you wanted to wave that knife and make yourself feel better. But that’s so stupid—in the situation we’re in, that’s absolutely suicidally stupid. And that surprises me, frankly, ’cause you’re not as stupid as people think.” Joey looked up, wary of a trap, not sure whether he’d been insulted. Kindle went on: “I know what people say. What they used to say. Nobody held Joey Commoner in high esteem. But that’s changed a little, maybe you noticed. You set up the radio—”

“That shithead Makepeace took it over,” Joey said. “I don’t get close to it anymore.”

“Point is, it wouldn’t be there without you. Who found Boston on the twenty-meter band? Who found Toronto? Shit, Joey, you’re the only individual in town who can read a circuit diagram. You know that. So why do a stupid thing like this? Come up here wavin’ a little red pocketknife just because some girl tickled your nuts?”

“You don’t understand,” Joey said, but there was a note of conciliation in it, a hint of regret.

“Maybe,” Kindle said, “if the doctor agrees—and it’s his call, he’s the one who got cut—maybe we can not mention this incident downstairs. Not ruin your reputation for being smart.”

Joey said nothing. Waited, his eyes averted.

Matt said, “I guess I can go along with that.” Joey looked at him expressionlessly.

“Get on downstairs,” Kindle said, “and consider yourself lucky.”

Matt watched him amble down the corridor to the stairwell. The door opened and closed inaudibly, the sound of it buried under the noise of the storm.

Kindle turned to Matt. “Some medical advice from a civilian? You ought to bind that cut.”

He bandaged it quickly and rolled his sleeve down to cover the evidence. “Since you’re here, maybe you can help me carry some pharmaceuticals.”

“Sure enough,” Kindle said. “I brought a flashlight, by the way. Abby mentioned you’d gone up without one.”

“Thanks. And thank you for what you did with Joey.”

“I didn’t do anything except derail him. I’ve been worried he’d do some shit like this. When Joey gets mad… he gets mad all over. You know what I mean?”

“He said he didn’t come up here to kill me. But it might have happened.”

“It’s not just temper. It’s like some old hurt he never paid back. There’s a button in Joey that shouldn’t get pushed.”

“You did a good job turning him around.”

“Yeah, for now, but in the long run…” Kindle looked unhappy. “People are such shits, Matthew.”

“They can be.”

“Joey sure as hell can be. You’re still shaking.”

“It’s been a long night.”

“Damn noise,” Kindle said. They had been shouting to make themselves heard. His voice was raw. “Matthew… a little more friendly advice? You have to watch out for yourself.”

“I think we all do.”

“Sure we do.” Kindle, looking vaguely embarrassed, gathered a carton of pharmaceuticals from the shelf. “So what do you think, are we go

The roar of the storm had increased a notch. It sounded like some disaster more tangible than wind: trucks colliding, trains derailing in the dark.

“Probably,” Matt said. “But we should get downstairs and stay there.”

“Come morning,” Kindle said, “there won’t be much left of this town.”

Matt gave Abby some of the sterile cotton, which she wadded into her ears: “It does help. Though it makes conversation difficult. But no one’s talking much anyhow. Matt? Did you hurt your arm?”

The bandage had seeped a little. “Cut myself on some glass. Nothing serious.”

“Get some rest. If you can!”

He promised he would. He medicated Paul Jacopetti, then found a mattress for himself and stretched out on it. Everybody had moved into the hallway where it was quieter. Beth and Joey were three mattresses apart, glaring at each other from time to time. Tom Kindle wadded towels under the stairway door where some rainwater had begun to trickle through. Everyone else was simply waiting.

Waiting for the storm to peak, Matt thought, or for the ceiling to drop. Whichever came first. And because there was nothing to see of the storm, the temptation was to listen to it… try to decipher every rumble that penetrated the basement.

After a time, Abby consulted Tom Kindle, and the two of them managed to tap enough generator power to run a microwave oven—suddenly Abby was distributing cafeteria trays of steaming instant di