Black Harvest

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Bob Elroy was worried sick. Something was wrong with the wheat. He and Billy had worked all morning on the machinery back at the barn. Now they stood by the fence, looking at the fields. Four days ago the wheat had been green and healthy.

Things had changed. Long patches of sickly yellow and brown fanned out into the crop. It kept spreading, whatever it was. He'd put in a call to the local office of the USDA. Someone was coming out today.

"Shit, Bob. Don't look good."

"I can't figure it. It's not insects. More like some kind of blight. There's never been anything like that around here."

"The USDA guy will know what it is."

"I guess so. Even if they've got something to stop it, it looks like I'll lose half the crop."

"You got insurance, don't you?"

"Yeah, but not enough if I lose it all. And the bank won't give me a break."

"That's for sure."

Like everyone he knew, Bob walked a fine line between profit and loss, survival and bankruptcy. The bank ruled his life, and the less said about it the better. It used to be different, back when things had been local, run by people who understood what farming was about. But then the economy tanked. His community bank was gobbled up by one of the big corporations. Now decisions about his life were made by people thousands of miles away who'd never been closer to a farm than a supermarket. It was hard enough being a farmer, what with the weather and pests and cost of things like diesel and fertilizer and insect control. Now this.

Bob didn't want to admit it, but the hollow feeling in his stomach felt like fear. Fear for his livelihood. Fear for Mae and his kids. Fear he would lose everything.

The day was crisp and sunny. A fresh, strong breeze blew across the Nebraska plains. Bob's land was in the heart of America's bread basket. Fields of wheat and corn spread for a hundred miles in every direction. Winter crops coming up, crops being planted. An ancient cycle, one he understood.

Bob loved his life. He loved farming. He thought few things were more beautiful than the silent fall of snow covering the fields during the winter, or watching towering clouds and lightning build on the far horizon in the heat of summer. Listening to the crops rustle in the wind. For Bob, amber waves of grain was a lot more than a line in a song. It was the American dream come true.

The spreading darkness in his fields was a different kind of dream, an American nightmare.