A Day In The Cornfield

by Glenn Gray

“The heck he come from?”

“Darned if I know,” Karl said.

“I ain’t never seen ’im either,” Stew said.

“He an ugly bugger.”

“Ain’t he, huh?”

“He got a stick like you had, too.”

They watched the dog-man, walking slowly, leaning into the stick.

“What’d he do?” Stew said. “Stole it?”

“You left it in the barn,” Karl said. “Seen you put it next to the tractor wheel.”

“Darn right,” Stew said. “The heck he get it then?”

“Most probly ain’t yours.”

“Maybe he got the same one.”

“Same stick?”

“Same kind maybe.”

Karl made a face, shook his head, “Too far to tell anyways.”

“Reckon he been in the barn?

“Woulda seen ’im.”

Stew raked his hand over his stomach. “Hey lookit Bongo will yur?”

Bongo was up ahead about ten feet, paws out front, rear end in the air, tail straight as a pitchfork, growling.

“Bongo lookin mad as a cornered critter,” Stew said.

“Bet she knows sumpin.”

“Like she seen the guy?”

“Nah,” Karl said. “She knows sumpin ain’t right.”

“Think he the one dropped the turd-thing?”

“I told you it ain’t no turd,” Karl said. “Maybe he dumpin’ some toxic stuff. Chemical stuff.”

“Maybe like radiumactivity.”

“Just chuckin’ it on our farm.”

“What about that new chicken processin’ factory in town?”

“Could be why the stick burned up.”

“Knew it.”

“You didn’t know nuthin,” Karl said.

“I said it might be sumpin.”

“What’s sumpin?” Karl said, then pointed. “Lookit. He ain’t movin no more.”

The dog-man halted about one hundred yards away, frozen. There was silence and then a sound like a yap and Bongo bolted toward the dog-man, darting across the open field.

Karl said, “Get ’im Bongo!”

They started to run, Karl leaving the wheelbarrow in place, Stew with the shovel overhead like a javelin. The dog-man dropped the stick, turned to his left, and ran.

Stew said, waving the shovel, “Get ’im, girl!”

The dog-man ran into the dense cover of the cornfield, disappearing behind the wall of stalks. Bongo disappeared shortly thereafter. Then Karl. Then Stew.

Karl and Stew followed the broken stalks and barking sounds, slowing down a bit to listen. They finally found Bongo sniffing and yapping away at the ground. On the dirt was a pile of clothes including a red flannel shirt, faded denim overalls, dirty work boots, socks and torn white cotton underwear.

Karl and Stew stopped next to Bongo, breathing heavily through gaping mouths, chests heaving. Karl had his hands on his hips; Stew leaned on the shovel, both looking at the ground.

Karl said between breaths. “The heck... happened... to ’im.”

Stew said, “Look like... he got... neckit.”

Bongo kept barking.

“Shush, girl,” Karl said, catching his breath.

Stew waited a moment. “Think there a trap door under it?”

“In a cornfield?” Karl said, shaking his head. “Ain’t likely. Move them clothes’n find out then.”

“You.”

“You got the shovel.”

Stew looked at the shovel, shrugged. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I told you those’re your clothes,” Karl said, nodding at the heap of clothing.

Stew looked at himself, up and down, said, “I’ll be darned.”

“Even them underdraws.”

Stew tilted his head, coughed. “Now that ain’t right.”

“Told yur sumpin ain’t right.”

“How’d he know what drawers I wore?”

“Weirdo I betcha.”

Stew hooked the garments with the pole-end of the shovel, swung them around, and dropped them in a heap a few feet away. He handled them gently, as if they were made of glass.

“Well well well,” Karl said. “Kick me in the butt.”

Bongo growled.

Stew said, “Another one a’ dem turd-things.”

“Sumpin ain’t right,” Karl said. “I told yur sumpin ain’t right.”

They looked at each other and then back at the glowing black shiny mound.

Then there was a thud, and then a quick succession of many thuds. Thud thud thud thud.

Bongo took off toward the field, faster than ever. There was no barking.

“The heck wrong with that girl?” Karl said.

“Lookit,” Stew said.

Karl and Stew swiveled their heads and saw at least ten more black shiny blobs on the ground around them. Cool fingers of wind wove around the green and yellow corn husks. A small cloud of dust lifted off the ground.

Stew met Karl’s eyes, trying not to move his body. He had the shovel up in both hands now, metal overhead, ready to swing.

“You right, Karl,” Stew said, almost whispering. “These ain’t no turds.”