Rico was absolutely waiting for an answer.

Did he believe in Jesus? As an adult Roy had lost what little faith he had through a series of events that left him renouncing an uncaring God. Certainly working for the Federal government had left him agnostic to most things, including his ex-wife and his two boys. A belief was there but it had no pulse, it contained no answers for what his life had been or would become. Roy was certain Jesus could run him over in a big white tank and he still wouldn't believe in him.

But back then his religion was fear. He was afraid of Rico, as if he was some predatory animal that had stalked him at the perimeter of the orchard before closing the gap with powerful, threatening strides. Which is exactly what Rico had done.

"Of course I believe in Jesus," the boy said. "Don't you?"

"Roy, little man," Rico whispered, as he squat down on his haunches, the black wirey nostril hair and the stench of his breath now unavoidable. He grabbed the sides of Roy's head as if to gaze upon something precious."I am Jesus."

"I was, I was, no, no, um, no," Roy sputtered, as Rico's face came into clearer view, illuminated like the moon's, dark on one side. "You scared me, Rico!"

The farm hand moved forward, his large frame nearly as tall as the ladders he climbed up and down all day. On this night Rico wore a wet, grimy tee shirt turban-like around his head and a pair of of jeans. His long hair was tied tightly in a pony tail, held in place with two sappy pieces of tree twine. And in the waist band of his pants was the handle of a very long knife.

"Didn't know your Pops can really bang the old buckets, eh?" Rico said, boredly exhaling the smoke of his cigarette out of his nose before spitting a large ball of snot sideways into an overgrowth of honeysucke. "Ya, back in the day when me and your old man was in a band together, he actually thought he was gonna be famous, like some fancy cat on the cover of Rollin-fuckin-Stones, or some crazy shit like that. I would tell him to lay off the fucking acid, but he loved that shit. He ain't the same guy I knew."

Roy went to speak but his dry mouth made him nearly gag as he tried to salivate.

"Ya, now he's just fucked up. Some of us got high, and some us found God, my man. Let me ask you something, Roy, do you believe in Jesus?" -- JV

It had been the last week in July and the peaches were pregnant with juice, the branches of the trees bending under their weight. During the day the humidity was insufferable. At 10 years-old, Roy wanted nothing more than to ride his Huffy into town with his friends from school, who would make the nearly seven mile trek for hamburgers and fries at the McDonald's near the K-Mart. But there was fruit to pick.

In the early morning when the breeze moved through the trees, the long leaves curling inward in a swirl of complaint, Roy and Sarah would help Poppas load the baskets onto the tractor's trailer while Mama, El and Rico trudged through the dew-covered earth to set up the ladders. Poppas said almost nothing during the routine. Roy had many theories for his father's fondness for silence, all incomplete yet somehow connected, like a scattering of letters in a crossword puzzle.

He knew the farm was not what his father had planned on doing with his life. Sometimes, long after the heat of the day was chased from the valley by night's approach, Poppas would retreat to the supply shed at the bottom of the hill where one summer they kept pigs and then, the next, chickens. Now it was full of drums of insecticides and greasy work gloves and broken peach baskets growing out of the mud floors like primitive trees. It was there, peering through the shed's tiny window, he watched his father sit on a crate and, two drum sticks in hand, begin beating on everything before him. It was percussive chaos, as a cake pan gave up a bang, an overturned basket produced a whick-whack, an oil can ting-tinged. Shirtless, sweating, his father threw his arms about in a blur of movement. He was drumming! And it sounded good, something tribal and rich with meaning, layered.

He snuck back to the shed several more times to watch his father. Sometimes Roy would just climb into the branches of nearby apple trees and listen. Who had taught his father how to play the drums? And why did he do it in secracy? He needed to know and decided after the seventh night of watching his father nearly drop from such exhaustive practice sessions, he would ask him. The next day.

As he climbed down from the apple tree he let go of the last branch with a start. "Whatcha doin' up there, critter?" It was Rico, his shadowy outline briefly illuminated by the swift flare of his cigarette being lighted. "You spyin on your Pops?" -- JV

Richard and Ellen - Rico and El, as the family came to call them - stayed for only one harvest season, but it seemed like a lifetime to Roy and Sarah.They were mostly somber, serious and focused, disciplined about time. They were tidy with the little room they shared. It was Roy's room. Roy had to bunk up with his little sister to accommodate the hired hands, but somehow he didn't resent it. He liked the way Rico and El spoke to him directly, asked him serious questions. Rico's pale blue eyes, frightening to Sarah, were like talismans to Roy. El's raspy yet gentle voice was somehow always calming. They were like hippie apostles.
Sometimes, out on the porch at night, Roy would find himself listening intently to El as she spun Biblical-sounding stories that he had never heard in Sunday school. Often, they ended with great plagues or apocalyptic cataclysms that fascinated Roy.
The couple went from interlopers to trusted friends over night, it seemed to Roy. Although there was something about them he could never quite put his finger on. He never learned much about them, where they came from, what they had done before, where they were going. While they had fast and thorough answers to philosophical questions, they tended to give vague replies to any personal queries.
Most nights that season, long after Poppas had retired with Roy and Sarah, Margaret would stay up with Rico and El. No one really knew what they talked about.
It wasn’t long before Poppas and Margaret started arguing. -- RJ

He was only eight at the time, but he remembered the day his father had hired Richard and Ellen to work on the farm. It was the early 70's, in Western Massachusetts, and they lived in a humid valley in the Berkshire mountains, where for a brief time in July and August the hills held onto the humidity just long enough for peaches the size of softballs to grow. "Take a bite of that 'leaner,' Poppas would say to the tourists station-wagoning down the Mohawk trail. He called them 'leaners' on account that you'd have to lean forward before biting into one, or else the syrupy juice would ruin whatever you were wearing.

The couple had come up the road on foot, which wasn't all that unusual back then. Hitchhiking, especially on the trail, was actually fairly common. But there was nothing ordinary looking about the pair. He was a tree of a man, so tall and thick, with a nest of wavy hair and sunburned muscular arms for branches. He wore a white tee shirt beneath denim overalls, with a box of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve, cradled above his right bicep.

She was so thin you could lose her by squinting. Sarah came out of the peach house and joined Roy by his side. "That lady's dress is sparkling." Ellen's poncho was covered in tiny little mirrors that refracted the bright midday light, what seemed like a thousand twinkles with every step. Her black hair galloped down her back and completely covered her ass with a jet-black curtain. Her eyes were hidden behind the largest pair of mirrored sunglasses he had ever seen.

"Hello there critters," boomed the tree. "Your folks around."

Before Roy could answer his sister offered, "They're out pickin'." It felt like a secret she shouldn't have shared.

The shimmering woman bent down and put her face in front of Roy's, his reflection distorted and tiny in her mirrored lenses. "Can you tell them they got company?" -- JV

"I mean... is she holding up? How are you? Does the room seem okay? Is she talking, or is she just doing that silent thing she does?"
Roy words washed over Sarah. She let a long moment pass before replying. "Everything's okay. Everything's going to be okay. Mom's resting." There was silence on the other end.
"Okay," Roy managed. "Tell her I love her." His voice quavered slightly. "And I'll check on her tomorrow after work." Pause. "God, it's so fucking beautiful out here," Roy sputtered. "How could I forget that."
"You okay, Roy?"
"Yeah. Sure. I guess so."
"I need to tidy things up here. We'll talk later?"
"Right. Yeah. Talk later. Bye." Roy hung up before Sarah could say goodbye.
It's just as well, Sarah thought as she folded her phone back into her purse. He had sounded a bit drunk, morose. Sarah had never liked talking with her brother when he got in his dark little moods.
She turned to her mother, now breathing slowly with occasional sighs, and gently pushed a few stray hairs back from her forehead. Looking down on the her mother's strangely serene face, Sarah thought of the good years they had. When things were normal. When Poppas was still around. Before her mother found God. -- RJ

Roy wanted to know how things were. "How's she doing?" he slurred slightly. He sounded as though he were on the other end of the earth.
Looking over at her mother, now with her head on the bed's pillow and eyes closed, Sarah felt a strange mix of emotions. That old, recognizable migraine with all the painful memories it brought. But then, what was this? Her mother next to her, resting quietly, vulnerable, no longer in charge. She looked almost like a little girl in repose. Sarah felt an unfamiliar tenderness. -- RJ