“Collateral Damage” by Suzanne Craig-Whytock

Collateral Damage

“He’s salted my land,” Roman announced furiously to his wife, storming into the kitchen where she was cooking dinner. “That bastard!”
Lenora shook her head wearily. “How could he have? All thirty acres? It’s not possible. Besides, you use salt before the crops are planted.”
Roman snorted dismissively. “I don’t know what he used, but it was him. That goddamned bastard.”
Lenora looked at him sharply. “I’ll thank you to keep it civil,” she said.
But there was no civility between Roman Burris and Solomon Elmslie, at least not on Roman’s part. They’d grown up side by side, but with their borders rarely touching. As young men, both had taken over their respective fathers’ farms, but Solomon had made a success of it, getting into dairy, while Roman, never much ambition to him, kept the crops and never expanded the acreage bequeathed to him over the thirty years he’d been its sole heir. When Solomon’s wife passed away two long summers ago, the widower had sold the quota and the cows and moved to town, where he took on a small, well-cared-for bungalow, while Roman stayed on the farm.
The first time Roman had driven by the bungalow in his rusted-out pick-up truck, he was irrationally livid. “Look at that,” he’d said to Lenora. “The man’s got nothing to do but tend his pretty flower garden! Must be nice to have the time to be so fussy.”
“Nothing wrong with a man being particular,” Lenora had answered distractedly. She was impressed with the roses out in full bloom, bush upon glorious bush, and thinking of her own sad flowerbeds, and how nice it would be to have a well-cared-for bungalow in town.
“Particular — is that what we’re calling it now?” Roman rolled his eyes derisively. “Fussy,” he repeated under his breath.
The latest volley had come three weeks prior to Roman’s dramatic kitchen entrance. He’d been outside the house, trying in vain to repair a rotting window sill when Solomon Elmslie had pulled into the laneway in a shiny SUV. He got out of the vehicle and advanced towards the farmhouse. Roman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Hiya Roman,” Solomon began hesitantly.
“Hiya,” Roman replied, putting down his chisel. He said nothing else and he could tell, with a certain amount of satisfaction, that he was making Solomon uncomfortable.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Solomon said.
I’ll bet you will, you fussy bastard, Roman thought with an inward snicker. He watched as the other man, equal in age but not as ravaged from the sun, skin saved by the security of the milking parlour, rocked back and forth on his heels uncomfortably.
“I was wondering about that old White Rose gas pump you have over there by the barn. I’d be happy to take it off your hands, restore it, you know? It’d look great in front of my garage. I’d pay you for it, of course . . .”
Relating this to Lenora later, Roman was still shaking with rage. “The nerve of it!” He punched one fist into the other palm. “Who does he think he is?!”
“Why don’t you just let him have it?” Lenora asked. “It’s a rusty old eyesore. We could use the money.”
Roman was apoplectic. “I’d rather it rust into a million pieces and disintegrate into the ground before I’d let that fussy bastard get his hands on it!”
Then three weeks later, Roman took his old combine down the road to his corn field. As he approached, it occurred to him that something looked strange. When he got closer, he realized that the once-proud stalks, almost ready for harvest, were shriveled and twisted like black licorice. He stared at the field, acre upon acre, and tears came to his eyes. “All of this for a goddamned rusty old gas pump?!” he screamed to the heavens, his heart as black as his corn.
And he knew in his black heart that Solomon Elmslie was responsible, and he vowed his revenge.
He said nothing to Lenora, Lenora who kept insisting that he was being ridiculous, Lenora who hated the gas pump, and the corn, and the farm, and even perhaps Roman himself. No, he said nothing. He filled up a four-gallon pressure sprayer with vinegar, drove his rusted-out pick-up truck in the middle of the night to Solomon Elmslie’s house and doused Solomon Elmslie’s goddamned rosebushes with the acid in both the power sprayer and his heart. He figured it would take about twenty-four hours for the roses to shrivel up and die like his corn, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on Solomon’s face when they did.
Two days later, he couldn’t wait any longer. “I’m going to town,” he announced to Lenora.
“Pick up some bread,” she called back, but he was already turning the key in the ignition, breathless with anticipation. Oh, how he would rejoice at the sight of Solomon Elmslie crying over his roses. He wished he could have been there at the exact moment of discovery, imagining the look of disbelief, the soft white hands squeezing the black petals in despair, the look of revelation when Solomon realized that he had been justly served.
Roman drove slowly into town, savouring the moment as much as he could, and then turned down the street where Solomon the widower had taken up residence. As he got closer, he could see the shiny SUV in the driveway, and Solomon standing next to it. He was staring at the once-glorious bushes in front of the well-cared-for bungalow, his face crumpled. Roman parked the truck on the street and slowly walked up the driveway. Sensing his presence, Solomon turned. His eyes, Roman discerned with delight, were indeed full of tears.
“I don’t understand,” Solomon said quietly, his voice breaking. “How could this have happened?” He stared at Roman plaintively, hoping for comfort.
“Who can say with plants?” Roman answered, a hardness underneath the question.
“But they were fine when I left.”
Roman was suddenly uncertain. “Left?” He turned his head toward the SUV. The back hatch was up, revealing two suitcases and an overnight bag.
“I’ve been gone for three weeks, visiting my sister-in-law. She takes me in every year around the time that Mona passed. She knows how hard it is for me, being alone now. I brought those rosebushes from the farm. I couldn’t stay there anymore without Mona, but the roses — she loved them so. How could this have happened?” he repeated, bewildered.
Roman felt the cold hand of revelation grip him by the back of the neck. He said nothing. He got into his truck and drove back to the farm. Lenora came outside. “What now?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron in exasperation as she watched him load the White Rose gas pump into the bed of the pick-up.
“Just balancing the books,” Roman said, exhaling hard. “I’m a stupid man, Lenora, and I’m sorry for that. Maybe we should think about selling up and moving to town.”
As he drove away, the gas pump bouncing precariously with each pothole, Lenora stared at him long and hard. Then she went into the barn, and replaced the canisters full of brine on the sprayer with the fertilizer that should have been there all along. Maybe once they moved to town, she could plant some rose bushes.

Suzanne Craig-Whytock

Suzanne Craig-Whytock is a Canadian novelist published by Bookland Press. Her shorter pieces of writing have been featured in Slippage Lit, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Women Writers, Women('s) Books, Spillwords Press, The Sirens Call, and Elephants Never. She was recently nominated for Publication of the Year (non-poetic) by Spillwords Press.

Headshot: Ken Craig-Whytock

Photo Credit: Staff