Hello Everyone!

                                The Wheat Man
                         A Story for the Heck of It
                                by Dave Laird
                          Copyright Dave Laird 2000

"Larry," Susan Maberly craned her neck to see past her husband driving their
family pickup truck, "there is a red-headed man sitting all alone in the
middle of that wheat field we just passed."

Larry and Susan were returning from their regular-as-clockwork weekly trip
to the grocery store, coming down the gravel road to their home along the
Spokane River, and had just passed one of the few unharvested wheat fields
remaining in the area.

Larry Maberly thoughtfully removed his pipe from his mouth, and, with a
pronounced twinkle in his eye, said, "The last time I checked, sitting in
the middle of a wheat field was still legal." The barest trace of a scowl
toyed with the lines at the corner of his eyes, then finally gave up trying.
"Besides, what business is it of ours whether or not someone is sitting in a
wheat field, or even a thornbush for that matter?"

"Well I'm sure that Mr. Pilsen who owns the wheat field probably would want
to know about a stranger sitting in his wheat, wouldn't he?"

"Who said the guy was a stranger?" Larry remonstrated gently, looking at his
wife with one eyebrow slightly raised. "Did you get that good a look at the
guy that you'd swear he was a stranger?"

Then, perhaps thinking better of the comment, he took his foot off the gas
pedal and gently tapping the brakes, added softly, "Although I suppose maybe
we should back up and get a look at who it is, in case someone asks us
later."

The old truck had seen many better days, and as they slowly backed up the
road, Larry stuck his head out the driver's window watching behind the
truck, listening thoughtfully as the truck's gearbox gave a plaintive whine.
The late afternoon breeze, warm but with a distinct touch of autumn, played
in the dusty dead grass and jimpson weed alongside the country road, briefly
playfully touching his face and ruffling his hair as he reversed back down
the road to where she had seen the man.

He gently stopped the truck with a squawk of ancient springs, and as they
sat there, the engine softly ticking to itself, he peered off into the
distance at the man who his wife had first noticed. The man had red hair,
and was dressed in bib overalls, but other than that, he couldn't see much
more, for the man was sitting facing away from them, smack in the middle of
what was otherwise a ripe, flowing field of thigh-high wheat ready for
harvest. The red-headed man was doing nothing, at all, for all that Larry
could see. How strange.

"Hmph," Larry muttered to himself. "Do you suppose I should go over there
and ask the fellow what he's doing sitting in the middle of someone else's
wheat?"

"Oh, Honey, be careful. You never know but what he might an escapee from
prison, the funny farm or some other kind of nutcase. Let's just call the
Sheriff when we get home..."

"Well, he looks innocent enough. Let's ask him what he's doing." With no
further discussion, Larry leaned partially out the window once more.

"Hello!!!!! You out there in the wheat field..."

The man with red hair turned and slowly rising to his feet, began traipsing
his way through the wheat, leaving an indelibly dark line of fallen wheat in
the field wherever he stepped, despite the fact he walked carefully, using
his hands to spread the wheat apart to clear himself a path. When he reached
the edge of the wheat field directly opposite the truck, the red-headed
stranger abruptly sat down on the verge of the ditch, and smiling at Larry,
waited wordlessly.

"What are you doing out there?"

"Oh, I don't know that most folks would understand, but I been sittin' out
there listenin' to the wind in the wheat. It's a healthy kinda' sound to my
way of thinkin'."

"I see." Larry once again thoughtfully removed his pipe from his mouth, and
began fussing with the remaining tobacco in it, and looking speculatively at
him asked, "You live around here?"

"Oh, lord, yes. I'm Gary Wells. Me an' my wife, we live up the road. Well,
actually I'm from up in Kansas originally, but my wife and I moved in up the
road just a piece about a month back. I just happened to be out for a walk
and got a touch of homesick is all. When I was a kid growin' up in Kansas, I
always loved to sit outside of an evening and listen to the wind talking to
itself in the wheat field, and I guess I let impulse take over a bit too
much, is all. You folks must be the Maberly's. I seen your mailbox as I came
walkin' down the road."

"Yep, that's us. I'm Larry," and with a gesture in her general direction, he
added, "this is my wife, Susan." He puffed again on his pipe, and then, his
eyes narrowing a bit, he asked, "Which place did you say you moved into?"

The man plucked a ripe wheat blossom off a nearby stalk, and putting it in
the corner of his mouth, waved diffidently toward the west and the setting
sun. "My wife and I bought the old Henderson place, which is the farm house
way off to the right as you turned onto this here gravel road. 'Taint much
to look at, but it's a place away from the city, where I can keep a few milk
cows, hear the farmers workin' the land an' see the stars at night. I guess
I'm always gonna be a farmer at heart."

"I remember hearing talk of that, now that I come to think of it, Tom,"
Susan whispered in an undertone from her side of the truck. "I don't
remember the details, I do remember someone mentioning that somebody new had
moved into the old farmhouse."

"Well, we thought we'd just ask is all. You can't be too careful these days,
you know." Tom said cheerily, and putting the old truck into gear, added,
"We'll be seeing you around."

When Tom and Susan got home, while Tom carried in the sacks of groceries,
Susan disappeared into the back of the house, and just as Tom finished
feeding their Irish Setter, she reappeared, her face pale, her hand to her
mouth.

"Tom, I just called Sophie up the road to ask about that strange old man
with red hair, Mr. Wells. Honey, he wasn't telling the truth about living up
the road with his wife at all. I knew there was something he wasn't saying,
but he seemed so nice and friendly, so I just kept my mouth shut. That
wasn't Mr. Wells, no way at all."

"You are kidding, of course." 

"Oh, no. Sophie told me that both Wells were killed in a car wreck on Lucas
Road about two weeks ago. They had just moved into the old Henderson place,
had barely gotten settled when they were hit broadside by a farmer hauling
cattle to the auction on the highway. The Henderson family's been down there
most of this week trying to figure out what to do with their things, not to
mention their milk cows."

"I'm going back up there and have a talk with this so-called neighbor of
ours, then..."

"You're doing no such thing, Larry. I already called the Sheriff's
Department and told them about it, and they told me just not to worry.
Apparently there've been several people who say they've met him walking
around the area since that car wreck, but nobody can swear to the fact it
was him and not some wiseass playing tricks on people. The Sheriff's
Department is going to send a deputy out right now, so you just stay right
here and keep me company."

Several weeks passed, and odd as it might have been, eventually both Tom and
Susan forgot their brief encounter with the person that was impersonating a
dead farmer from Kansas recent to the area. Their encounter, as well as
several other peoples' encounters with the friendly red-headed man that
looked a lot like Wells slowly faded from their conversations, written off
by most as a harmless but sick prankster.

Then, early one evening about a week later, as Larry was driving home from
work alone, he chanced upon the affable red-headed man just as he was
passing the Henderson place once more. He slammed on his brakes, the old
truck protesting with every one of its many mechanical voices. Larry had
played a lot of rough-and-ready football as a kid growing up outside
Spokane, and having met the stranger once before, he wasn't afraid of him at
all. Jumping out of his truck and into the cloud of dust that slowly trailed
behind him, he walked up to the stranger.

"Just who the hell are you, anyway?" he demanded angrily. "You scared my
wife half to death with your little tricks a few weeks back, and now that I
know that the Wells are both dead, I want to know just who the hell you
really are."

The stranger wordlessly took out his wallet from the back pocket of his
overalls, and extended it to Larry, adding softly, "I know you probably
don't believe nothin' I says, but here is my Kansas driver's license, son."

Larry carefully examined the faded driver's license in the wallet, and
looking up at the stranger, he carefully compared the picture in the wallet
with the stranger who, although he was dressed, as before, in bib overalls,
this time he was wearing a straw hat pushed onto the back of his head. Larry
stood stock still for several moments, looking carefully back and forth,
between the worn license and the man standing in front of him at the end of
the lane. Although no expert at such things, Larry would swear they were the
same person, Gary R. Wells, Senior.

"You know folks around here are saying you're supposed to be dead, don't
you?"

"Folks don't always know what they's talking about," the man said, with a
hint of diffidence and just a hint of a smile on his face. "'Course, maybe
if they'd been in that car wreck, and seen their loved ones all mangled up,
they might'a been glad to leave this world. As for me bein' dead, I guess
the Lord wanted me to stay on for awhile, although my body died and is
buried. I don't claim to understand it any more than you do."

"You mean to tell me you're a ghost of some kind?" Larry asked
incredulously. "The next thing you'll tell me is that the Tooth Fairy is
coming to my house next week, right?"

"I didn't tell you nothin' like that at all," Wells said softly. "My son's
came out the other day, and he's gonna take care of the place for awhile, 'n
settle my affairs. He ain't no farmer at all, which is why I guess I'm here,
instead o' with my wife where I belong. He doesn't even know how to milk a
cow, which is pretty bad, considerin' my cows all need milked twice a day. I
don't know why I'm here, but my name is Gary Wells, an' I live here, at
least for the moment. I'm darned sorry if it troubled your wife, or anybody
else for that matter. I guess I just don't have much of a choice in the
matter."

"But you're dead, right?" 

"I guess I am, since I was in the car with my wife when that guy rammed us
with his truck. It was pretty bad, seein' my wife in that way, but when you
get right down to it, I guess I'd dead, yeah. I'm tryin' hard not to make
any problems for anybody until things get straightened out, is all. Please,
Mister, I'm just as confused and scared as a man can be. One minute I'm
sitting there with my wife dying by my side, and the next minute I'm back
here in an empty farmhouse milkin' my cows. It ain't easy bein' whatever it
is I'm supposed to be, but it's the god-awful truth that I'm still here,
when I shouldn't be."

"You say your son is up at the house?"

"Yep, he's up there right now."

"Do you mind if I give you a lift up there, maybe talk with him a bit?"

"That'd be right nice o'you."

Larry started the pickup truck, and turning into the lane, they rode
together wordlessly up to the faded white clapboard farmhouse, set back from
the road nearly a quarter-mile. Climbing out of the whimpering old truck,
they walked together through the yard, up onto a sagging porch that creaked
beneath their feet, and in the back door. A younger man, with fading red
hair, stood in the middle of a country kitchen, the smell of freshly-made
flapjacks still hanging in the air.

"Uh oh," is all he said, standing there with a plate of flapjacks in one
hand, a spatula in the other, staring wide-eyed at the pair.

"You are????" Larry asked, gesturing with his right hand.

"I'm Gary Wells, Junior," the young man stammered awkwardly. "I gather from
this that my father the ghost has messed up again and gotten himself caught
this time?"

"Well, you could say so in some sense of the word," Larry declared, looking
with askance at both the Wells'. "You're sure this IS your dad?"

"Yep," the younger Wells said firmly, "He showed up here at the house about
milking time two days after I went to his and ma's funeral, but it's my dad
for sure."

"Oh Lord!" Larry said, running his fingers through his hair. "Now what the
hell do we do?"

Gary set the plate of flapjacks on the dinner table behind him, and turning
back toward his dad and Larry, waved the spatula in the general direction of
the stove and stammered, "I guess I should offer you some pancakes, before
my dad skins me alive for not bein' socialable enough to neighbors."

Once more Larry angrily jammed his fingers through his hair, then pointing
his finger at Gary Junior, snapped, "Let me get this straight. You buried
your dad, who was killed in a car wreck. Then two days later he shows up
here at milking time and begins milking the cows, right? Since that time
he's been wandering around the farm teaching you how to run it, including
how to milk the cows. Am I missing anything?"

The younger Wells blushed a bright crimson but unflinchingly returned
Larry's gaze, then responding, "As crazy as it may sound, that's pretty much
the way it's been. I've been afraid to say anything to anybody, for fear
they'd lock me up and put me away. I admit I ain't no farmer and I don't
believe in no ghosts, either. I'm just a tool and die maker back in Liberal,
Kansas, fer Christ's sakes. I never milked a cow before in my life until dad
came walking through that door. Like to scared the shit out o' me."

Larry stood his ground once more. "Why did you stick around after the
funeral, then?"

I stayed out here originally to sell the place and to pick up a few of my
folks' possessions, and that is ALL. I swear that's the truth."

Larry stood silently for a minute or two, his head reeling, his heart
pounding angrily in his ears. Finally, he threw his hands up into the air,
and said, "Well, I don't know what to do, dammit. It really isn't any of my
business what you two do or don't do. Just so long as you do whatever the
hell you're doing so it doesn't scare my wife or rattle my neighbors, it's
fine by me. But others might not take that view if they heard what you just
told me."

The younger Wells, wiping his hand on the apron around his middle, reached
over and shook Larry's hand.

"That's more than I would do were I in your shoes, and you were in mine,
Mister. I was always taught to tell the truth, but when even the truth is
stranger than fiction, I don't know what to say. I appreciate your
understanding."

His head still reeling, Larry drove his truck home, still attempting in his
own way to cope with the strange conversation he'd just had, between a
living son and the ghost of his father returned from the dead. He was even
more greatful that Susan wasn't home from work yet, and by the time she
arrived an hour later, he had somehow composed himself, although very much
ill at ease with his knowledge.

About a week later, as he was leaving the house for work, he saw the first
milk bottle, sitting on the porch, with a note attached. 'I'm learning my
son how to milk cows, now, and it isn't all that bad. Here's some fresh milk
for your trouble.' It was signed in a chicken-scratch scribble, Gary Wells,
Sr. Over the next six weeks, each morning there was fresh milk beside the
doorway, a fact he was able to hide from Susan by telling her he had made an
arrangement with one of the nearby farmers.

This continued for several months, and since there were no more "sightings"
of Wells, Senior, everyone concerned quickly forgot any question about
strangers in the area.

On Christmas Eve morning, a fresh foot of snow fell during the night,
leaving daybreak white and pristine and well below zero outside. When Larry
went out to retrieve his bottle of milk that morning, there was a note once
more on the bottle which said, "I'm leavin' now. My son's become a pretty
good farmer, but take care of him for me, please."

As Larry stood in his doorway, the snow still sporadically falling from the
leaden sky, off in the distance he could see Gary Wells, Senior walking
across the wheat stubble in the field where they'd first met. Wells turned,
briefly, in the white field, and waved his hat briefly, then disappeared
into the distance and the frigid winter air.

                                    -30-