Fiction – François Bereaud

Strawberry farming

“You might as well be drowning puppies.”

Fern dropped the last rabbit into the metal garbage can and secured the lid to avoid seeing, or hearing, what would ensue. He knew he should ignore Steve and his Scottish lilt, the one which had drawn him in all those years and time zones ago, but he couldn’t. “Go back to your opera.” Steve flipped him off, but headed in the direction of the greenhouses, where he’d tend the succulents, arias blasting in full surround sound, his last connection to civilization he claimed.

Drowning rabbits was cruel. But it was the best solution to preserve the strawberries. After, Fern would spread the carcasses in the fields which would encourage the coyotes who’d then stick around and eat more rabbits. And it saved a trip to the lake where they’d previously released the rabbits and to where, in truth, they couldn’t afford the gas. Six months here and one month to picking season. Everything was tenuous, old lives burned, savings account on E.

Two days later Fern sat on the porch, beer in hand, the setting sun dripping orange over the strawberry field. Steve was in town giving a piano lesson. He’d told Fern not to wait for dinner – leftover enchiladas from Magdalena, their closest neighbor with habits of dropping off food and tending her garden in the nude. 

A car came down the dirt driveway. It drove too fast and arrived in a dust cloud. It was big, an Oldsmobile, something his father had driven forty years ago. A thin man emerged, skin gray, age indeterminate. “Howdy neighbor, got a minute?”

Howdy? Fern squinted at the man, finished his beer, and rose. The man moved to the back of the car and opened the massive trunk, beckoning to Fern, a huge grin on his face. 

Guns. The trunk was full of ancient looking shotguns. “Collector’s items,” the man said. “But they all work too, single barrel. Good for shooting rabbits and such.” Fern dropped the beer bottle, it hit the man’s boot. “Whoa, relax, it’s all legal, I can show you my sales license. Want to try one?”

The gun lay heavy in his hands, the barrel thick on his shoulder. “That’s it,” the man said, “you’re a natural, just follow the sight and give her a squeeze. Like a lover.” Fern almost dropped the gun at this remark. 

He scanned his field, undoubtedly rabbit filled. A coyote howled in the distance. He turned back toward the house and spotted an object. He raised the rifle and shot. Dead center. Two metallic clicks, entering and exiting.

“Jesus,” the man shouted, “whatdidya do that for?”

After the man left, his two for one offer refused, Fern sat staring at the garbage can, now useless as a water vessel.

The sun was down, its last light a soon to be memory. Steve would be home any minute. Fern stood to warm the enchiladas. They’d find a way. 

They always did.