devils shimmered over the cornfield. It was late August, but the
midday sun was still so hot that it raised blisters on Lara’s
arms. It turned the leaves into green mirrors that reflected back a
blinding light. Lara shut her eyes against the glare and held out
her hands, trying to reach the edge of the cornfield by feel, but
she tripped on the rough ground and fell, grazing her knees on the
hard soil. She’d had plenty worse falls, but this one made
her feel so humiliated that she started to cry.
“Don’t be such a baby,” she whispered fiercely to
She sat up to inspect the damage. Her dress had a long streak of
dirt up the front and her knees were bleeding. She’d made the
dress as part of a summer 4H project for the county fair. It was
pink lawn, with a placket up the left side edged in rose
scalloping, and she’d won first prize for it. She got up, her
knees stinging when she straightened them, and hobbled the last few
yards into the cornfield.
The corn was so tall that walking into the field was like walking
into a forest. After a few dozen steps, she couldn’t see the
house or any of the outbuildings. The rows looked the same in all
directions, neat hills about two feet apart. If she turned around
in circles a few times, she wouldn’t know what direction
she’d come from. She’d be fifty yards from home, but
would be so lost she could die in here. Probably she’d die of
thirst within a day, it was so hot. Blitz and Curly would find her
in October when they came to harvest the corn.
Lara lay down between the rows and stared at the sky through the
thicket of leaves and tassels. The corn was as tall as young trees,
but it didn’t provide much shade; the leaves were too thin,
and they didn’t make a nice bower overhead the way bur oak
would. She scooted close to the stalks so that leaves covered her
face and blocked out the worst of the punishing sun. It was a
close, windless day, but when she lay completely motionless, she
could hear a rustling of the leaves, a sort of whooshing, as if
they created their own little wind within the field.
Grasshoppers whirred around her. A few birds sang through the rows,
pecking at the corn. The ears were almost ripe, the kernels at dent
stage, and the smell was sweet, not like the icky fake-flavored
corn syrup you got with your pancakes at the diner, but a clean
light sweetness, before anyone took the corn and started
manufacturing from it.
She lay so still that a meadowlark perched on the stalk right above
her. It cocked a bright eye at her, as if wanting her opinion on
“They’ll make the corn dirty,” Lara told it.
“Here in the field it’s clean and sweet, but then
they’ll take it to their stupid factories and turn it into
gasoline or plastic or some other nasty thing.”
The bird chirped in agreement and turned to peck at one of the
ears, trying to get through the thick husk. When Lara reached up an
arm to strip the husk back, to help out, the bird took off in
In the distance, she heard her father calling her name. She
squinched her eyes shut again, as if that would shut out sound and
sight both, but in a few minutes she heard the louder crackling of
his arms brushing back leaves.
“Lulu! Lulu!” and then louder, closer, more
exasperated, “Lara, Lara Grellier, I know you’re in
here. Blitz saw you go into the field. Come on, we have to get
With her eyes shut, she felt his shadow overhead, heard his sudden
intake of surprised breath. “Lulu, what are you doing down
there? Did you faint, are you okay?” and he was bending over
her, smelling of shaving cream, so strange, Dad shaving in the
middle of the day.
It didn’t occur to her to lie, to say, yes, the sun got to
her, she fainted, she was too ill and weak to go. She sat up and
stared at him, imagining how she must look, covered with dirt and
“I just fell, Dad, I’m okay, but I wrecked my dress. I
can’t go like this, I wrecked my dress.” She burst into
tears again, as if the loss of a stupid dress mattered, what was
wrong with her, to cry over her dress at a time like this, but she
sobbed louder and clung to her father.
He stroked her hair. “Yeah, baby, you look like you decided
today was mud-pie day. It’s okay, the dress’ll clean up
fine, you’ll see. You run in the house and wash up and put on
He pulled her to her feet. “No wonder you fell, wearing those
crazy flip-flops in the fields. I keep telling you to put on shoes.
You could step on a nail, get tetanus, ringworm, aphids could lay
eggs under your skin.”
It was a familiar litany and it eased the worst of her sobs. When
they got to the house, he hesitated a moment before letting go of
her arm. “See if your mom needs any help getting dressed,
okay, Lulu? And don’t forget your trumpet.”
Lara hunched over her desk, the day vivid in her mind, as if she
were in the cornfield right this minute in her pink lawn dress, not
in the classroom, in jeans, flip-flops, getting ringworm or
athlete’s foot from the school’s dirty floors.
“Write about a day you spent this summer that stands out in
your mind,” Ms. Carmody had said. “Make me feel the
weather, make me see what you saw, show me what makes it so vivid
in your mind.”
English period was half over and everyone around her was scribbling
like mad. Only she sat, head in hands, not moving.
Ms. Carmody came and stood over her. “What’s the
problem, Lara? It doesn’t have to be perfect, or even an
adventure, it’s just a simple exercise to start you people
Lara liked Ms. Carmody: she was her Sunday school teacher at
church, and was one of those adults that teenagers could talk to,
but Lara felt furious with her right now, making her write this.
She glared at Ms. Carmody and picked up her pen.
“The Day We Buried My Brother,” she printed in large
capitals at the top of the page. “A Day that Stands Out in My
Mind.” She felt a vicious pleasure at Ms. Carmody’s
sudden intake of horrified breath, but didn’t look up. Ms.
Carmody had been out of the country, seeing her stupid brother get
married or something, when Chip died, so she had missed the
memorial service at the church the week after the funeral.
Apparently she’d missed the news about Chip’s death
altogether, which was strange, since all people did at social hour
was gossip about each other, and all spring and summer the
Grelliers had been supplying more melodrama than a TV reality
Until Chip died, Lara had flinched from the sideways glances, the
talk that stopped abruptly when she came into the choir room. After
that, she stopped noticing or caring what the outside world
Before they could bury Chip, they had to drive to Kansas City to
collect his body, a process that stunned the whole family, because
they assumed he’d be in a real coffin, and that someone would
be standing at attention on the tarmac to welcome his body home.
Instead, he’d been stuffed in a metal box in the hold of a
cargo plane and the family had to fill out a bunch of forms and
drive around to the back of the airport to collect him, picking his
coffin out of a jumble of giant containers holding tractor parts
and milk cartons.
Fortunately Blitz had driven over with them; Dad could never have
managed everything on his own. Of course, everything was a shock,
not just the whole summer, but the whole year had been one shock
after another, really, everything in it, not only that enormous
cargo hanger, with a couple of men who weren’t rude or mean,
just over-worked and not able to take time to help the family. Out
of the whole year, of arrests, illness, fire, the biggest, worst
shock, was the afternoon Captain Wesson came to the farm.
It was the day after the fair ended, and Lara was writing Chip a
long e-mail, about everything happening at the farm and the fair,
especially the fair. “I see it’s like a hundred and
twenty in Baghdad, and it’s about that hot here, so the
animals at the fair really suffered. Junior Schapen was taking part
in the hay bale tossing contest, and it was pretty funny, because
he really thinks a lot of himself.”
Curly, who’d gone with Lara to the fair, had said,
“Junior and his old man are the kind of guys who love
themselves so much they eat their own shit and like it.” Lara
added that in quotation marks, making sure Chip knew it was Curly
speaking, that she wouldn’t say something so dirty, even if
every time she thought it, she started to giggle. She knew it would
make Chip laugh, although, come to think of it, Curly had probably
said it to him a million times. Chip and Curly used to hang out.
They smoked dope together, shot baskets—even though Curly was
thirty, a grown-up, he’d always seemed closer to Chip’s
age than to Blitz or Dad.
“Anyway, when the platform was fifteen feet high, Junior
tossed the bale and it landed on his head. It knocked him out, but
even Big Arnie could see it happened because Junior was
hot-dogging. They stopped the contest for a bit while they made
sure Junior was okay, just a little concussed, but given that his
head is pretty solid ear to ear, they really should have checked
the hay bale for damage.”
She had just hit the send button when the doorbell rang. Lara
couldn’t place the sound at first, because in the country, no
one ever went to the front door, or even rang a bell. Not just at
their house, but every house in the valley, people always went in
through the kitchen, and kitchens open onto the
yard—it’s the way farmhouses are built.
Lara didn’t even realize her house had a doorbell until that
moment. When she heard the shrill sound, she thought it was the old
black telephone, the one Gram used to have in her bedroom, because
she couldn’t abide the new lightweight plastic ones.
Lara went down the hall towards the back bedroom, and then heard
the sound again coming from the front door, except, of course, the
front of the house was at the back, at the bottom of the big
staircase, which the family also never used. She ran down the
stairs, her hand automatically caressing the eagle head carved into
the newel post at the bottom. She could see the outline of two
men’s bodies through the white glass in the panel, but she
couldn’t wrestle the door open, it had been locked for so
“Come around to the kitchen,” she shouted through the
crack in the panels.
She ran through the cold formal parlor that her family also never
used, into the dining room and then the kitchen, where she stood
waiting for the men. As soon as she saw them, both in formal
chocolate jackets, she knew Chip was dead. She didn’t say
anything to them, but started screaming “Dad, Dad,” and
ran to the barn, to the combine shed, to the cornfield, before
remembering her father had announced at breakfast he was working
the oat field, two miles distant.
She was so distracted that she started to run along the train
tracks that marked the south boundary of the farm, as if she could
run in her flip-flops all the way to the Wakarusa river where the
oat field lay, but Blitz, who’d been irrigating the corn,
caught sight of her. He came after her in the small Cub tractor and
scooped her up.
“It’s Chip,” she said. “I need Dad,
they’re from the army, they’re at the
Blitz didn’t say anything, but turned the Cub around to head
back to the house.
“No, no,” she shouted, pounding his side. “We
have to find Dad.”
“I’m going to do that, Lulu, but I want to get the
When she kept pounding him and screaming, he stopped the tractor
and grabbed her arms. “Listen to me, Lulu. We will get there
faster in the truck than in this thing. Stop your yelling: your dad
needs you to be strong for him, you hear me?”
There was somethin