It was the cicadas on those hot August evenings that elicited childhood dreams in that rural America, Their droning songs in that humidity that never seemed to break. Seaweed green outer shells infused with black to match jet black eyes bugged out. Translucent wings, veiny lines enmeshed throughout at odd angles. Inch-long prehistoric reminders with thick width—perfectly designed for phobic reactions.
Morning brought fear to the cicada itself. The first break of light paralyzed the ones who had not found haven. He pressed against the trees, in the blades. On pavement. On brick. Siding. He prayed that his white underside was hidden from birds swooping and squirrels bounding. The unlucky few were clamped into claws, beaks and canines, and how they screamed. A cicada in peril foretells death for a distance—how they did scream.
1
The night had gone deep towards morning. The cicadas had retreated and the owls retired with their meals earned on the hunt. In the quiet a docile cicada crawled with his thin, black legs up the side of a barn. A barn with only remnants of deep burgundy paint upon wooden boards. Split from the heat, then winter death, then spring rains, and then cycled again for years. He was tranquil in the darkness. Chirped, chirped, then nothing and the night air returned to silent inquiries among the insects.
Moments passed, and in one of those, the guttural rumble of a pickup truck broke through the softness. Headlights set to high beam cut through the darkness. Thick tires disturbed the dirt, crackled as they rolled over the gravel. It traveled down the unpaved road, and then veered right into a driveway of gravel and dirt. Past a dilapidated farmhouse, a rusted fence, miscellaneous farm equipment, disassembled and incomplete, bunched against a storage shed. An orange feral cat ran fast across the lit land in front of the truck as it slowed. Her eyes glowed as she took stock of the noise then bounded over the equipment remnants and disappeared through a gap in the shed. The truck continued, beyond a pen and an abandoned 1967 Chevrolet Impala, metallic blue under rust.
It was a standard cab Ford, late 70s model. Midnight black tinged brown and stripped down to its function. The hood canted forward for perceived aggression. Square headlights separated by a steel grill. It grunted over gravel, before slowing with squelching brakes at a dirt clearing near the cicada’s barn. Click, click, click into park. A quick ignition turn and the night returned to natural silence.
The man sat stoic in the cab, peering at the barn, illuminated by the headlights. His lips were pursed, his breath steady through his nose. His pale skin and stout features were shadowed by a dense brown beard that settled just above his chest. A thick build, strength built on manual labor that remained even as unemployment and idleness made his gut protrude.
The door squeaked as he pressed it open and stepped to the gravel earth. He closed in on six feet and faded black work boots with thick soles got him there. He wore light blue jeans, dusty and unwashed. A plaid shirt of maroon, blue and white with a pocket per side covered a white tank undershirt. Turning to the truck bed, he closed the cab door, reconnecting to the frame with proper steel acoustics.
Ansel leaned against the truck, reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The pack was half empty, and the remaining cigs had shifted to one side of the soft pack. He shook them until a cigarette appeared halfway out, then grasped it with his lips. He took a metallic lighter from his jean pocket and flipped it open. He peered behind the truck and down the path he had driven down to reach the barn. Satisfied that he was alone, he flicked the lighter and his face glowed as he brought it towards the cigarette.
With the ember alight and the Marlboro secure in his lips, he turned his attention to the truck bed. Rusted in spots. Dinged in spots. He rested his elbows against the painted metal that transitioned to the bare steel of the bed interior. A long drag, then an exhale and the ashen gray smoke set into the black under full moonlight.
A final drag, and he exhaled fully, flicking the spent filter into the open gravel. It spun quickly, and the ember stayed firm as it landed. He leaned into the truck bed and slung a black duffel bag over his shoulder, grasped the metal detector by the handle and, with his other hand, took the shovel. Click. Click, as Ansel depressed the light switch through the open truck window, and natural darkness returned.
The gravel shifted under his feet as he walked to the barn. An owl sent warnings, but he could not tell if from the dilapidated structure or a nearby tree. His eyes had yet to adjust to the sudden dark, he stopped and waited for his pupils to expand.
The winds shifted as he stood and, in the breeze, flitted the apple trees. Sweet and earthy, and the foliage and fruit produced a distinct aroma—one he knew. At that moment, he was eight years old, pulling a Radio Flyer wagon with all his might down trampled dirt. The sun shone brightly and created a hue of light only felt in memories. He wore overalls, blue and dusty with one knee frayed, exposing his kneecap. A deep yellow t-shirt, sleeves lined with white stripes and an image of an airplane ironed on. He had wanted to be a pilot. An ace, a hero, a commander of massive jet engines.
A young girl sat with her legs crossed inside the wagon, nearest the back. The sun glanced off her pale, freckled skin. Her ginger hair flowed free. Green eyes, a button nose and deep dimples when she smiled. The same blue overalls covered an eggshell shirt patterned with roses. White canvas shoes with rubber runners to protect her toes.
Ahead of her in the wagon sat a boy, the middle of three siblings. His brown hair lay flat around his head, dropping down and covering his ears. Dirt creeped on his cheeks as he squinted in the sunlight, hiding deep blue eyes. He wore no shirt underneath his overalls.
Apples as red as the wagon itself piled up around the two riders. They bounced around them as the hard rubber wheels traversed the uneven ground while he pulled with all his strength. They tried to ride without holding on, but every time they grabbed the side giggles rang out into the eternity of the farm. As apples fell into their laps, they burst with pain then laughter.
He pulled, and pulled, and cleared the gravel, and the wagon smoothed over thick, green grass, content from summer rains. Exhausted, he slowed and then stopped. The two younger siblings climbed out, each holding several apples. Amanda handed one to Keenan, and then one to him, and they all sat down onto the grass.
The apples crunched with every bite, and juices ran down the children’s chins. And when finished, they threw the cores in the direction of a barn—gigantic to their childish perception, freshly painted and unbelievably red.
In that moment, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, there was no want. No fighting from the master bedroom. No children’s teases over matching overalls and worn shoes. No fears of father’s belt. No running from mother’s wooden spoons in the kitchen. No hunger or cold fingers in winter’s depth. There were only apples, sweet and ripe and everything.
A quick shiver broke the moment, and in the moonlight, Ansel approached the barn doors. Ajar and untended, the opening offered enough space for him to squeeze through, pushing the wooden door wider along a rusty track with his back, feet dug into the dirt.
The moonlight filtered through slats in the roof—some pieces had fallen to the floor, enabling the moon further. Three wooden beams descended from the high ceiling, equally spaced along the length of the barn. The last of which anchored to a loft that ran its wooden base to the eastern wall, with a ladder still providing access. Hay bales towered high, although a few had fallen to the ground below, an opportunity for the rodents and, in turn, the cats.
In a corner, under a large opening in the roof where the moonlight flooded in, he set down the metal detector and shovel and unzipped the black duffel bag. He staged the items on the barn floor.
One pair of Koss PRO4AA headphones. Over-ear design, beige shell with black interior.
One Remington 870 Wingmaster 12-gauge shotgun. The stock and pump action, wood—rich and lacquered deep. The body, matte black. Loaded.
One red rectangular Coleman flashlight.
Flashlight in hand, and directed at the floor, he inserted the headphone cord into the detector jack and turned on the machine. In a second the signal flew to the right of the dial, and the tone pierced his ears.
“Fuck!” he yelled as he threw off the headphones and noticed that the wooden shovel was directly below the device. Setting down the detector, he walked the shovel to the wall nearest him and propped it up.
Headphones fitted once again, he grasped the detector and studied the knobs. They were foreign to him, so he let them be. Starting opposite the loft, his right arm swayed, the white underbelly of the machine a few inches from the ground. Steady in its alert, close in his ears. The flashlight secured in his left hand, revealing only that which mattered in the moment.
At the first beam the alert heightened. He paused, studied the rusted metal bolts at the base, and continued. Slow progress as he focused. To the middle beam, and then under the loft. Beep. Pause. Beep. Pause. Beep. Back to center, then near where he had started. Beep. Pause. Beep. Pause. Beep. Again, he turned. Again, he paced. Through the spilt hay under the loft. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. He stopped.
He slid the hay from under him with his foot to make a clearing, then crouched down and drew an ‘x’ with his finger. Off with the headphones, detached from the detector, he grabbed the shovel and set the flashlight down, creating horizontal light to the ‘x.’ With a heft, he drove the shovel into the dirt crust, fogging the halo of light in dust undisturbed for many a year.