Fall Harvest

The following short story by Damon Stewart first appeared in Full Circle (2003). It later appeared in Interesting Tales of Other People's Woe, a collection of fiction by Damon Stewart (2014).

Carter set his glasses on the desk and rubbed his eyes. It was time to call it a day; he had to get going soon. He put the glasses back on, pushing the bridge to the top of his nose with his finger, and spun his chair around to look out the window behind him.

It was getting dark, the sun having begun to retire earlier each day as October carried the season to its colder end. Carter studied his reflection in the glass; a thin figure with a rumpled shirt and rolled up sleeves staring back at him. He looked younger than he was though, or so it seemed, the window giving him back a good ten years—mid 40’s, tops. He straightened his tie, sighed, then loosened it.

His office, on the 15h floor of a tower in Chicago’s North Loop, overlooked Lakeshore Drive and Lake Michigan beyond. In the remaining light he could see the whitecaps push their way across the water. Something about the water’s progress reminded him of his pending travel. The leaves should be turning, he thought, maybe I should bring a camera.

Carter hadn’t slept well the past few days, and was counting on the flight to get a decent nap in. A drink or two at the airport would help; there was a nice little bar there, dark, with high-backed stools and music turned low, perfect for calming jitters. Designed for flying-jitters, actually, not necessarily those Carter was feeling, but then again alcohol covered the full jitter-spectrum regardless.

He sighed again and stood up; it was time to get moving. He had brought his suitcase to work and was going to take a cab straight to O’Hare.

“All set to go, Carter?” his secretary, Brenda, asked as he passed her desk on his way to the door.

“Hope so.”

She sat back in her chair and looked at him thoughtfully. “What’s wrong? You’ve been quiet all day. I thought you were going to your hometown.”

“I am.”

“Sorry, I know I just asked this—Vermont or New Hampshire?”

“Luther, Vermont. Up near the Canadian border.”

“That’s it, right, I remember. Just east of nowhere.”

“North of it, actually.”

“Gonna stay with family?”

Carter shook his head. “My mother lives in Florida. My father passed away years ago.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“Got a sister in Massachusetts. An aunt and a couple of cousins too, but they are all in L.A. Haven’t seen any of them in years.”

“No one left back home—that’s going to be a little weird. Do you keep in touch with any old friends?”

“Not really.”

She paused, waiting for him to explain, then, “Well, still. A small town, right? You must know half the people there.”

“You’d think.”

“When’s the last time you were back?”

He looked up at the ceiling, scanning the tiles. “Not sure. About fifteen, twenty years ago.”

“Huh. That’s a long time.”

“Yeah.” Carter looked at his watch, then back to Brenda. She was waiting for more. “Well, you know, I just never made it back after college. My parents moved during my last year in school, so there wasn’t really a ‘home’ anymore, I guess. Always meant to go back, but things just kept coming up.”

She squinted at him. “Things.”

“Yup.”

“Ok. Tell me about it when you get back.” She turned back to her keyboard and started typing.

“Well, I should get going, so …. ”

“Safe travels, Carter.”

“Thanks.”

Two hours later, on the plane heading east, he thought about what he didn’t tell her, what she clearly expected to hear when he got back—that for the life of him, he just didn’t know why, exactly why, he never went back. Years ago, before he stopped even pretending that someday he’d return, he would schedule a weekend or a few days of vacation time for a visit to Luther. But inevitably something came up at work, or his wife or girlfriend or (many years ago) a drinking buddy would have a better plan and the trip got canceled. He’d blown off so many invitations—get-togethers with old friends, weddings, class reunions, a couple of funerals even.

Then one day, it was just too late to return. He had crossed some threshold he hadn’t known existed until he looked behind him. Carter didn’t mind, not much anyway. The feeling was odd, but not necessarily bad. Not as long as he didn’t think too much about it, and there wasn’t much in Chicago to remind him of Vermont.

Since last year his company, DairyTek, had been on an acquisition spree, targeting failing creameries in the Northeast and snapping them up right before they went under. As VP of Risk Management, it was his job to visit recent purchases. He’d meet with the on-site executive team and go over state and federal regulations, insurance issues, pending litigation, labor matters and the like. He’d been to upstate New York, all over Pennsylvania, a few towns in Massachusetts—before each trip he would idly consider a brief excursion north to Luther, then quickly dismiss it for lack of time.

But last month he learned that DairyTek had bought Luther Creamery, Inc. Carter had forgotten about the place, he had just assumed that it had long since disappeared. But it hadn’t, its slow decline positioning it to land in DairyTek’s arms, and now he had to do the standard review.

Ordinarily, it would be just another quick initial visit to make sure everyone knew the direction they were supposed to go and who they could call for help. Carter had read the list of names of the senior staff; to his relief he didn’t recognize anyone. Still, the prospect made him uneasy. It was like coming back as a stranger, with someone else’s past that had to be honored. Carter couldn’t tell what bothered him more, the thought of having to re-introduce himself to an old friend (“Hey, I’m Carter Young. Remember?” with an embarrassed smile), or running into someone who still cared enough to demand an account for his absence.

It wasn’t that big a deal, he kept telling himself.

***

It happened within five minutes of his arrival at the plant—he was being led down a cavernous hallway, the thrum of machinery quietly resounding under the fluorescent lights, when he heard a voice behind him—

“Well, Carter Young, how the hell are ya?”

“Hey there …. ”

“Darrel. Darrel Morrison; come on, Carter, you remember me.”

“Ahhh …. ”

“Alright,” Darrel patted his ample stomach, “maybe I’ve changed. So have you, ol’ buddy.” He

gestured at Carter’s head, “more than a little gray up top there.”

“Oh Christ, Darrel Morrison. Shoot I’m sorry Darrel, it’s been so long and all that.”

“Yeah, like twenty years or what? It’s not fair though, I knew you were comin’. So what are you up to, man? I heard you the new boss now,” and Darrel grinned, punching Carter lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh, no, I’m just here to check some things out.” Carter looked at his watch, trying to think. They had been friends his senior year in high school; good ones at the time, but Carter couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Darrel other than school. For years, after Carter left for college in Boston, Darrel would call, inviting him back to Luther for parties, a class reunion, a fishing expedition. At first, Carter would politely decline, saying he was just working too hard or that he had other commitments, but promised to drop by soon. And he had meant it too, it was just that things were … things.

Eventually Darrel stopped calling. Carter was trying to remember if it was for Darrel’s wedding that he had RSVP’ed indicating he’d attend, only to change plans without bothering to tell anyone. No point bringing that up now, he thought.

“Yeah, I’m sure you got a lot to do today,” Darrel said, “but ah, you wanna catch up later? I’m sure Kathy would love to see you. What’re you doin’ for dinner?”

Carter didn’t even think about it, the words just came out. “Actually Darrel, my schedule’s pretty tight. I got a lot of things to go over before I leave tomorrow.”

Darrel nodded his head. “Ok. I got it.” He turned and started back down the hall. “Nice to see you. And all that.”

“Darrel,” Carter said, but not very loud, just enough to place it on record. It wasn’t anything he had against Darrel; he would probably enjoy a visit. But Carter hadn’t yet sorted out his role; he needed to figure out what posture to adopt, what theme to follow. The sheer volume of time measured against these old relationships—Carter didn’t know how to address it.

***

The inspection didn’t end until 10:00 pm; the Hazmats were outdated and the on-site manager—a kid, really—they got younger every year—was in a talkative mood. Afterwards Carter returned to the room he had booked in Luther’s only motel, just outside the village, and lay on his bed, watching T.V. He flicked idly through the channels, pausing at a comically bad preacher who stood motionless at a podium, droning on about Jesus and the scripture’s interpretation of modality. A click of the remote and he was watching an infomercial about a revolutionary new “home pastry maker!”—suspiciously similar to a pie plate—with “a dynamic new shape!” (round); “space age construction” (aluminum); and “lightweight design” (again, aluminum). Another channel offered viewers outtakes from c-list celebrity reality meltdown shows, a collection of truly sad moments from desperate people whose humiliations, strangers or no, were too much for Carter to bear.

He went back to the televangelist to try to figure out what he was talking about. He couldn’t, but as expected soon drifted to sleep, thinking about how the air smelled so familiar.

—she sat on a metal folding chair in the middle of a small, empty room.

He was standing a few feet away, facing her, as sunlight flooded in through a single window, high on the wall behind him. The shimmering light cast everything in a tinge of gold, reflecting off the walls and the floor to create a haze that clarified only around her.

She was looking at him and smiling, and suffused in the light was the knowledge that she was someone he’d long since forgotten, even though they had once been very close, he was sure. But now he had found her again, and everything was going to be different, he knew, fundamentally better.

Carter was aware that he was dreaming. But the important thing was that he could see her face and he knew her name—not in a conscious sense; he struggled to bring it to the fore, but it sat buried deep inside him. He just knew that he knew, and all he had to do was pull it from the depths, carry her name out of the dream, or even just the memory of her face, just a shred of her identity to take with him back to the real world and he’d be able to find her, merge the dream with the actual and live both.

Carter focused and tried to commit the slumber shrouded image to memory. But just as he began to mentally grasp it, find a hold and pull her back with him to awake, the light faded and she started to disintegrate. Carter walked towards her, reaching out and prepared to physically take her with him, as if that were possible, and suddenly there was only the empty chair. He stared to cry out—

—and was jolted awake by the electronic warble of the motel phone.

“Mmmmph?”

“Your wake-up call, Mr. Young. It’s 7:30.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Carter hung up the phone and fell back to his pillow, staring at the ceiling. Home, he thought. Home. He repeated the word in his head until it lost all meaning.

He got out of bed and pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants that were hanging over the desk chair. Scratching the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin, he walked to the glass balcony door, stooping slightly as he slid it open and crossed the threshold into the brisk autumn air.

Sun’s bright, he thought, but all light and no heat. Carter hugged his arms over his bare chest and shivered, looking at the once-familiar hills surrounding the village. He struggled briefly to recall her name, but gave up; she was gone. It’s just a dream, he told himself, there isn’t anyone like that who I just plain forgot.

Carter walked back inside. He had a few hours to kill before the flight back, and decided to take the rental and drive around for a bit. Check out the house—years ago he’d heard that the guy who bought it from his folks had painted it red and added a huge addition. Maybe a cruise through the village, let recollection collide with the current, see what change now overlaid his memory.

After a shower he got dressed, pulling on a thick blue sweater and black windbreaker. He had on an old pair of khakis, faded and slightly frayed, and his old hiking boots, worn past their utility for true mountain excursions but still good for a walk through the streets of his youth. After a complimentary cup of coffee in the threadbare motel lobby, he got into the Mercury and drove into the village proper.

Turning onto Main Street, Carter was surprised to find that it was jammed with cars and people. He glanced up and saw a banner strung across the street: “Luther Welcomes You To The 30th Annual Fall Harvest Weekend!”

He had forgotten about that. When he was a kid, the event was held on the village square with six or seven craft booths, a barbecue wagon and a temporary stage for a country band. It was more of a social occasion than a vehicle of commerce.

But now, lining the sidewalks as far as he could see, were vendor stands—everything from custom-made, stainless-steel handcarts that gleamed in the sun to rickety platforms made of bent lawn chairs and scarred two-by-fours. “What the hell,” he mumbled, and after several trips down side streets found a place to park.

Walking back to Main Street, Carter pushed into the crowd and let himself be propelled along the sidewalk. It seemed that anything that could conceivably fall under the rubric of “craft” was for sale: hand-knit sweaters, colorful winter caps, homemade hot sauces, antler pot-racks—he took particular notice of some misshapen glass paperweights priced high enough to inform you that the creator intended them to look that way.

Carter stopped to unzip his jacket and noticed that a crowd had gathered to watch a young man demonstrate how to make tulips out of tissue paper and wire. A small bouquet soon took shape in his hands, the brightly colored bits of paper forming cartoonish petals and stalks. Carter was impressed and clapped with the rest of the audience, preparing to come over for a closer inspection, when he saw her out of the corner of his eye.

She was at an adjacent stand, inspecting a jar of maple syrup. As she held it up to the sun he instinctively turned away, wanting to think for a minute. She had gained a little weight, and her once jet-black hair was streaked with gray. But her face, still striking, was unmistakable.

Teresa Harper was his first girlfriend, first love, first everything. They had started going out when he was in 11th grade; she was in 10th. He smiled, thinking how he felt when they walked hand-in-hand down the hall.

They had broken up after three months. For a long time he cringed at the memory, the vicious arguments and petty mind games. Then he got his first divorce, ten years after college. By comparison, he and Teresa’s separation was surprisingly adult and amicable.

“Excuse me, dude,” said a kid on rollerblades as he bumped past. Jarred back into the present, Carter decided he might as well say hello and picked his way through the crowd to where she was buying two pints of, “Smooth Bark Syrup.”

As he approached he could see her fumble through her purse, spilling onto the counter a pack of tissues, keys, a bottle of aspirin, two pens and a vial of prescription pills. The latter slowed him down, he couldn’t see what they were but this was not part of the catching up he had in mind.

“Here it is,” she said quickly, as if aware of an anxious presence behind her. “I have exact change.”

Carter suddenly froze. What was he actually going to say? A nonchalant, “Hey, it’s been a long time,” seemed too clichéd. She probably wouldn’t even remember who he was. Then he’d have to explain … As Teresa started to turn around, holding the jars in hands more worn than memory allowed, Carter looked away and neatly stepped aside, then watched her disappear into the stream of people. That’s it, he thought, time to get going. There were a few places he’d like to see before he left town.

“Carter Young? Sorry, are you Carter Young?”

Carter turned around. “Yes?”

“Hi. Larry Saunders,” said a man who was holding out his hand and smiling. He looked about ten years younger than Carter. Red hair atop a wide, square face, short and well built, and dressed in a way that suggested he had made his fortune in a more urban setting.

Here we go, Carter thought, and grasped the hand before him.

“You probably don’t remember me,” the man named Larry said.

“Um, well …. ”

“That’s alright, it’s been a hell of a long time. I recognized you though.” He stood silent for a moment, appraising Carter. “Yup, been a while.”

This is going to be bad, thought Carter, I probably ran over his puppy when he was a boy.

“So Larry, I apologize, but I just don’t—”

“Well, a long time ago you did me a favor. I always wanted to say thanks.”

“What?”

Larry laughed. “I’ll bet you thought I was going to try to sell you something. Nope. Just thanks. I mean it, thank you.”

“Ok. You’re welcome, I guess. And … for what?”

“Remember Pee-Wee Little League? Christ, I don’t know how many years ago, it was the seventies anyway. You were a coach for Robinson’s Insurance?”

“I remember coaching.” Carter scratched the back of his head to show that he was trying. He had played third base for the school, so when his father’s friend needed some help with a little league team, Carter was volunteered. He and a buddy—Darrel?—spent six weeks teaching seventh and eighth graders the basics. He could remember fragments of that summer, hitting practice grounders and throwing slow, easy-to-hit pitches. But Larry Saunders didn’t ring a bell.

“That’s ok. I was called, ‘Muffin’ back then. Kind of overweight, you know?”

Then Carter remembered. A small, round boy with glasses whose parents had bought him an expensive glove and cleats. These accoutrements had little effect on his abilities however, and he didn’t seem to have any friends to offer any support. Carter felt sorry for him, and for most of the season stayed after practice to try to help him out.

“I remember, yes,” and Carter nodded. “Not that you were … I mean I remember you.”

Larry smiled and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Listen, you really did a lot for me back then. All that summer you worked with me on my swing.”

“Your swing. Yeah, that did need some work.”

Larry laughed again. “Well, maybe it didn’t help my hitting much. But the thing was, you just spent a lot of time with me.” He looked away and his voice dropped. “I was … the other kids thought I was a loser back then. But you were cool, and you were hanging out with me.” He turned back to Carter. “That didn’t necessarily make me cool, but they laid off—they couldn’t figure out why you did that, but they thought I wasn’t so bad then, y’know?”

“Thanks, but I don’t think I did anything—”

“No, you did. Sounds kind of strange, it’s not like you saved my life or anything. But it was all I needed, a break. I got my act together by the end of that summer. Started working out, lost some weight. Things changed after that. Took a while, but that’s when it began.”

Carter frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it.

“Hey, don’t want to take up your time,” Larry said, “gotta go.” He looked past Carter and spread his arms. “I’ve been comin’ to this for fifteen years, at least. Gets bigger every year. Anyway, I always figured I’d see you sooner or later. Thanks again though—been meanin’ to tell you that for years.”

With that, he slapped Carter on the shoulder and walked on.

Carter was stunned. Of all the encounters he had expected, nothing of this nature had crossed his mind. He turned in a slow circle, looking at the crowd with a sudden comprehension. They were all just talking and laughing, strangers and old friends, having a good time on a fall afternoon. No one was judging him—no one ever was, he realized—and the reproach he had carried with him was gone.

“Home,” he said aloud.

Then he heard his name again, from a different direction.

“Carter?” Carter Young?”

She was standing behind him, holding out her arms. Without hesitating, Carter walked over and hugged her.

Alicia Cory. All this time and he nailed it right away. It was the smile. They had started dating the summer before he left for college; it ended that Fall on his last day in Luther. He hadn’t thought about her in years.

“Carter, I’m so glad to see you! My God, it’s been so long! What brings you here?”

“I work for the company that bought the creamery. I had to do some things, flew into Burlington yesterday, heading back in couple of hours. Chicago.”

They stepped off the sidewalk onto the grass. “Chicago. I thought I heard that,” she said.

“So what’s new with you? I mean, in sixty seconds or less?” Carter asked.

Alicia laughed. “Well, the upshot is—“she raised the back of her left hand to his face—“my last name is Richards now, I married … oh never mind, you don’t know him, he moved here a year or so after you left.”

“Kids?”

“Randy, and he’s in his last year at NYU. Engineering. What about you?”

“Well, no children. But between two divorces I have enough in alimony payments to be raising one, if you know what I mean.” The look on her face changed, and he added, “No, it’s ok. Things are going really well. I like my job, live in a lakefront condo, drive a new car and vacation in warm places. Things are generally alright. How’s that for sixty seconds?”

“Not too bad,” and she laughed.

Carter lifted his head, grinning into the sun with his eyes closed. He felt good, and suddenly he glimpsed a room, filled with sunlight and a girl looking at him, smiling. She wasn’t Alicia, but he understood, finally, and he knew what to do next.

“Hey ‘Licia,” the name he used to call her, “please don’t take this as inappropriate or anything. But I always wanted to tell you that I miss you.” He opened his eyes and faced her again.

Before she could reply, a man’s voice called out, “Alicia, come over here, they got those wind chimes we want.”

“That’s Carl,” she said, “Why don’t I introduce you?”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get going. Tell you what though—I think I’m coming back next year for this, so why don’t I give you a call then? We’ll go out to dinner.”

“Promise?”

“You got it.”

Alicia paused, then, “You know Carter, I miss you too. Really. Take care of yourself.” She hugged him, then turned and walked away.

A breeze asserted itself, strong and noticeably cold. People began to look about, as if reminding themselves that winter was on its way and they should be doing things to prepare. Carter zipped up his jacket and watched Alicia disappear into the crowd. When she was gone, he turned and started towards the car.

He wasn’t going to check out his old house or go anywhere else; it was time to head home. He stopped abruptly, held still and closed his eyes as he raised his face to the sun. The girl did not appear. He didn’t think she would again.

Carter had the moment—a measure of gratitude and someone who missed him—and he held it tight as he walked back to his car.

Ⓒ 2014 Damon Stewart