The First Rains of October

The First Rains of October

Anthony Barbera

Published by Full Grace Publishing, 2018.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE FIRST RAINS OF OCTOBER

First edition. March 2, 2018.

Copyright © 2018 Anthony Barbera.

ISBN: 978-1419666230

Written by Anthony Barbera.

Also by Anthony Barbera

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Powerful Men & Women of the Bible

Jonah In the Time of the Kings: A Novel

Standalone

Catching Baby Moses

The First Rains of October

Watch for more at Anthony Barbera’s site.

This Book Is Dedicated With Love To Cynthia My Wife, My Daughter Jennifer And My Son Blake.

The

First Rains of October

by

Anthony Barbera

Copyright © 2009 Anthony Barbera

Third Printing 2020

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 9781419666230

Books by Anthony Barbera

Jonah In the Time of the Kings

The First Rains of October

Catching Baby Moses

Assurity

AnthonyBarbera.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 1

Graduation Night—June 4, 1965

WHEN AUGUST ST. CLAIRE ran off that cliff she dropped like a rock. True, she was running, and her legs kept kicking in the air—but then gravity yanked on her ankles. There was simply no way to tell when she’d hit. It was pitch black and foggy; all she could see were her feet descending ahead of her. She instantly grasped the situation; she didn’t flail or flap her arms. Instead, she pressed them tightly to her sides, the way young girls do when they jump into a freezing swimming pool. August realized in that split second that being an arrow was her best chance for survival. If she didn’t shatter on the rocks below first, if somehow she miraculously missed all the craggy spikes and plunged into that deep hole, deep enough to envelop her long fall from the cliff above—then she might live.

August didn’t have time to be afraid, or to remember that she was naked, her underwear clenched tightly in her right fist. There wasn’t even time to review her life and remember all those thankful moments you never wish to forget. She grabbed deep breaths hurriedly and exhaled quickly, deciding to fill up with as much air as she possibly could. Then she whimpered to herself. Then she screamed.

As she pierced the water-line, the foam looked almost soft. And as she descended, the sea closed taut against her skin and hugged her so tightly that for a sliver of time, the water felt warm. A breath later, stinging ice pricked her skin. She’d never felt cold like this in her entire life. Like a bullet, she pierced deeper and darker.

Descending, August had moments to think and was relieved that she hadn’t met her death on the rocks above. If she’d had clothes on, she’d have been dragged down forever. Even now, somehow, her mind gripped the truth: if this descent didn’t stop, she’d never make it back to the surface. So she began flapping her arms and ratcheted her kicking to slow her descent. Except after a few more seconds, she realized that it wasn’t fast enough; she couldn’t stop the descent quickly enough. She wasn’t going to be able to slow herself from the long fall. August was going to die down here, in this dank, empty numbness.

Chapter 2

10 Years Later—Sunday, Oct 12, 1975

WE MUST HAVE BEEN DOING at least seventy-five—my sister Merrily was driving, ripping down California Highway One, slick from the rain and fog of the night before. We could hear the water splattering against the floorboards of the floating Lincoln, the music, Low Rider by War, blaring on the cassette player, and us just rocking and ripping along.

My sister was twenty-five and crazy, and I must have been even crazier on account of our going to pick up Clay Moorehouse from San Quentin State Prison. I’m two years older than Merrily, her older brother . . . it makes you wonder, huh?

Our car, the Lincoln, was a ‘71 and smooth. Lincolns were like that then: broad and buttery–a gentle sway to ’em. She’d been my father’s pride and joy, his trophy for years of hard work, and no vacations. That’s dairy farming for you. He died last year, so my sister and I took the Lincoln whenever we had to travel out from the farm; otherwise, it was the pickup, a ‘57 GMC, mottled and rusty.

Take a little trip—take a little trip—take a little trip with me, was rattling through the speakers. We were late and driving way too fast for the coast road, cutting inland on Highway One through the wooded interior for stretches and then winding back, barely straddling the cliff-line overlooking the foaming royal-blue ocean below, speeding toward San Quentin.

That Sunday morning, we were in a big rush to pick up Clay the con man. Merrily had been writing him on and off in prison, keeping in contact. She was nuts. He’d been in San Quentin for second-degree murder since 1965, almost ten years, and now he was getting out on parole. Anyway, my sister Merrily goes and tells Clay she’ll pick him up, and he can stay on our farm for a while. I’m not kidding—I was really pissed off. According to her, he’d been a model prisoner. I knew she’d been sneaking to the prison to see him after her boyfriend Brice Compton dumped her, but I never thought the guy would get out of prison that soon. But Governor Jerry Brown was letting everyone except the worst offenders out early because the prisons were overcrowded. So now Clay Moorehouse, who’d thrown his girlfriend off a cliff into the ocean, was getting out early.

With my elbow propped on the windowsill, I couldn’t hold back. Merrily and I were hassling each other.

So, Merrily, you told him he could work for us—didn’t you?

"Bull, Seth! She dropped her jaw and turned toward me. I didn’t tell him that. I told him he could stay with us for a couple of days. That’s all!"

I had my arm hanging out the window and slammed my hand against the side of the car. Why didn’t you ask me first?

Lay off, Seth. I mean it. I don’t have to ask your permission for every stinking thing I do.

It’s not just about you, Sis; that’s my whole point. You don’t see me making family decisions without consulting you first—not since Dad died.

Merrily was a lot like our father: leggy, straight, and deliberate. She fit right into Levi’s and loved cowboy boots. At twenty-five, guys found her attractive. Her swirling hair atop her head was the color of Mom’s dark-rum cake, auburn with a golden layer twisted through the middle.

She slapped my chest, smiling.

Yeah, but that’s dairy business; this is personal. She said it as she tightened her grip on the wheel.

The highway was still wet, and the Eucalyptus trees reached high to form a long dappled tunnel beneath. I glanced at the side mirror and watched the ruddy leaves (like thousands of barbecued potato chips) flutter in our wake, making a crispy sound in the wind. Then we sliced right through Loss Landing.

Will you please slow down, Merrily. You’re going to get a ticket.

Taut against the Pacific Ocean, most of Loss Landing can’t be seen from the two-lane road, so you really have to slow down driving through town, or you won’t notice Lumbridge’s Dairyman’s Feed or Denali’s Fine Italian Dinners, either. I twisted nervously as we flew past Fallon High School, looking for a Highway Patrol car camouflaged behind the trees.

Why do you think I’d say that to Clay, about working for us? Why do you assume that, Seth?

Come on, Merrily, he grew up on a farm, that’s why. I know we need help, but you didn’t ask me first—that’s the problem.

Merrily stomped her boot on the gas pedal. All I’m saying, Seth, is that Clay’s changed. He’s not the same person he was in high school like you’re not, and I’m not.

I thought about that for about a half-second and laughed. Hey, Merrily—I didn’t push my girlfriend off a cliff, okay? It’s not the same thing at all. Come on! Just because a bunch of psychiatrists say someone’s rehabilitated doesn’t mean it’s true. That’s horse shit.

I still don’t believe he did it!

Leaving the Pacific Ocean and heading east toward Petaluma, the countryside becomes hilly and wide-open, emerald in the springtime, and wheat-colored in the fall. Dairy and beef cattle, sheep, and horses speckle the countryside. Divided by boulder outcrops and long rows of Eucalyptus trees, the farms sit on quilt-like sections of open grasslands.

Then we passed Clay’s dad’s farm.

The problem with all of this was that Clay and I had been best friends as kids. When I was a boy, and I’d spend the night at Clay’s farm, I would share in his chores. When he stayed at our farm, it was the same for him.

In high school, Clay didn’t have many guy friends, but that wasn’t true of the girls. I’d see their roving eyes as we hustled down the school hallways together. Of course, Clay had movie-star good looks. Heck, I’m not sure he even realized just how handsome he was. As a sophomore, one day, I saw a senior girl slip a note into his jeans pocket. He got all embarrassed and denied it, but I saw him with her later. It didn’t matter to me.

At that time, Merrily was only a sophomore, so I don’t think there was any interest there.

Merrily was really close to our father, Vernon. We both figured Pop would live forever. When he died, it was sudden and untimely. We have aunts and uncles on my mother’s side, but they don’t live around here, so it’s really the two of us now. But boy, did Pop love country-western music.

My sister Merrily is a nut for R&B and Blues, like Sly and the Family Stone and B.B. King, and she just loves War. But then she also liked Tammy Wynette and that cowboy hippie, Willie Nelson. She must have gotten that from our dad.

When she smiles, people are taken with the dimples on each side of her mouth and the light brown freckles. Merrily is simply happy to be female—as if it is the most wonderful ideal in the entire world. She is easygoing, especially with men—and at peace with life. She’s a lot like our mother, Arabella was.

Merrily is self-assured and confident in herself. And by God, like our mother, she is a stickler for details, especially the ones that interest her.

Merrily brushed the same kind of thick hair like my mother’s back from her face and shoved a James Brown cassette into the eight-track. "I feel good!" blared out of the torn right speaker.

Our mother, Arabella, died when I was only sixteen, still in high school. Mom was the sweetest of women and of good repute in our community. German, she was resolute. When it came to gossip, even as a kid, if you had an unfavorable tale to tell concerning a pal, my mother would insist you take it up directly with that very person and not circumvent the order of life until a respectable outcome was achieved. As things stood, respectable was always achievable within Arabella Northrup’s constellation of ideals, regardless of the situation.

She and Merrily were almost identical in height. Similar in appearance, Merrily had snowy-white teeth and sparkling brown eyes, just like mom. Fair-skinned and apt to pile their hair atop their heads, they had a shared temperament. When mom would get angry, she’d stand straight up, stick her chest way out and talk steadily and forcefully, which was how I imagined all Germans were: strong-willed.

Merrily was grimacing. She’d always do that before she really blew up. He just needs a place to crash for a few days, Seth. That’s it. And remember, his parents milked more cows than we ever did. Do you know that? And not just Holsteins, either. They raised hogs over there, as well.

Merrily, the guy’s been in prison for what, almost ten years? Who cares? What makes you think he even wants to work on a farm, anyway?

Seth Northup, you are a hypocrite. He knows more about farming than you do. Besides, why is it that people are so damn judgmental? They think they know everything about a person. It’s sickening.

Hey look, we’re talking about a murder, not a traffic ticket. What the hell is wrong with you? He shouldn’t be out of jail anyway—not for second-degree murder! The more I think about it, Merrily, the more I hate this. A couple days­—that’s it, then he finds his own place.

The thought of Clay getting out of prison and the two of them hooking-up. —Hell, I didn’t want this guy anywhere near my sister, but that wasn’t going to stop her. So, that’s why I went with her to pick Clay up at San Quentin. At least I could keep an eye on them. Besides, she’d have gone anyway.

Chapter 3

Hallowed Land

WHEN WE PULLED into the parking lot at San Quentin State Prison and rolled around the circular driveway, I spotted him right off the bat. They’d let him grow his hair; it was almost shoulder-length and wavy, like a girl’s, but parted down the middle. Clay was 6’2", almost as tall as I am, but he was the opposite in bulk. He was thin and muscular; I was taller and bigger but not so defined, just strong.

Merrily drooled, Oh my gosh—he looks even better than when I saw him last . . .

What did you think, he’s been working out with weights. What else is there to do in prison?

I’ve got to say, he did look pretty ripped. Muscular and lean, he had a noticeable six-pack beneath his tee-shirt. His new Levi’s were the color you can’t mistake for anything other than new jeans. He stood up from the bench, pushing his hair back as we pulled around to the bus stop.

Merrily slammed on the emergency brake and jumped out of the car, running and throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him. He picked up his small black duffel bag and walked toward the car, wrapping his arm around Merrily’s waist.

His biceps were a lot bigger than in high school. What a racket! You go to prison for ten years and come out looking like a magazine bodybuilder, while you’re supposed to be doing time. I climbed into the driver’s seat. Coming up to my window, holding Merrily’s hand, he nodded as if he’d seen me just the other day.

What’s up, Seth? he grinned.

I’d known Clay Moorehouse about as well as anyone. But we weren’t friends now, and I didn’t like her kissing all over him. Clay was nineteen when he entered San Quentin. I remember that day clearly. On the high school football team together, Clay displayed tremendous speed, quickness, and lean strength. He didn’t look like he’d lost any of it either. I’d been a tight end, a thick lineman, and tough enough to catch a pass right down the middle of the field, take a hit, and keep going.

Clay reached his hand through the open window, with his thumb up, the brother’s shake. Long-time no see, man.

You look good, Clay. Hop in–let’s get out of here while we can.

No kidding, he said, throwing his bag into the back seat as Merrily told him to go ahead and ride shotgun.

IF YOU PASS THROUGH the town of Loss Landing going west and continue north along Highway One for three and a half miles (still a simple two-lane highway), just as you come over a big rise, on the right, you can see down onto our property. Our farm sits in a valley and stretches a good way east, fading most days into a blur of turquoise sky and dry hazel grass. In the foreground, scattered across the landscape like so many dots, spotted Holstein cows graze, chewing steadily with heads down and mostly facing the same direction.

We turned onto our gravel road and drove past Northrup’s Dairy sign. Crunching in the gravel, we looped our way down to our dairy.

As we got closer to the house, I thought about where we would put Clay. We had a separate cottage down near the milking barn, kind of a rustic duplex type deal. Not the nicest quarters, but he wasn’t staying in the house.

So Clay, we have a ranch-hands house over by the milking barn. We’ll put your stuff over there after a while.

Merrily squirmed in the back seat. I thought he could stay in the big house, Seth.

I turned to her, and I must have been shooting darts because right away, she caught on. Oh, that’s right, he won’t be comfortable in dad and mom’s room. She leaned forward to Clay in the front seat. I think I told you Dad passed away a few months ago.

Hey, no problem, Seth said. Sorry about your dad. The guest house is great. I didn’t expect anything else. Your mother sure was a special person. I remember that. I don’t mean to be a bother to you two. I’m sure I can get plenty of work done to help you out, Seth.

Well, we’ll see how things shake out, I said. We got a lot of calves out there now.

After Mom died and I graduated from Fallon High School, I attended U.C. Davis, majoring in geology and natural history. Following graduation, I began work for the Hecla Mining Company in Nevada. At the time Dad died, we were busy with exploration throughout Nevada and Arizona. I was doing well, with a good salary and additional overtime. But when Pop died, it was unexpected. The man was never sick, not that I recall, and he never went to the doctor, which he claimed was the safest bet.

How many acres you got now, Seth? Clay asked, lighting a smoke.

187 acres, between the bottomland along the hollow and the plateau above.

Don’t owe a thing to anybody neither, Merrily volunteered. Pop saw to that.

As you pull up to the house, you’ll notice that all our buildings are tucked up close against the base of a sheer rock wall, rising hundreds of feet into the air. It becomes a plateau above, running west for almost an eighth of a mile, adjoining McCall’s property. So from the well-watered plateau above our farm, the slope glides gently downward, forest-green and lush most of the year. On the floor, as our valley bends to the left, the plateau from above converges with the creek, where it creates a soft alluvial fan.

The farmhouse is set back from the cliff just far enough to avoid falling rock. Fortunately, that big cliff shields our house from some of the nasty westerly winds and the worst winter storms. Kitty-corner and about forty yards to the east are the barns and the milking stalls. To the north of the house, flowing through the middle of our property and past our porch, Stemple Creek