Whispers Of Death Among The Corn
Another year, another corn maze. This year’s trek through the maize dredged up the repressed terror of the last one.
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We came to the labyrinth of grain aboard a wooden chariot littered with hay and pulled by a sturdy tractor that made a pleasing rumble as it crawled past the fields of pumpkins and the stand of apple trees. The kids thrilled at each muddy pothole and G and I exchanged bemused glances, basking in the wholesomeness of the outing. We disembarked our tractor with a spring in our step, eager to figuratively reap a harvest. The kids plunged forward, surefooted, into the corn maze. We followed behind, challenging their confidence in each path they chose, as if their desired heading were analogous to declaring a college major. One dead end equals a Sociology major. Another dead end and they’re moving back into our basement and working the night shift at the convenience store.
It’s fun, this family outing. We’re happy to be together, reveling in our romp among the tall, brittle reeds of rotting corn. I caution of the time since we took the last available tractor ride. They dismiss my concern with hearty laughter but I glance reflexively at my phone to note the hour, at which point I also see that I have no reception.
4:15pm – Honey, do you have any bars on your phone? I don’t. So I just want to make su– oh, you didn’t bring your phone. Right. Why would you indeed? It’s a corn maze, not a quest from a Tolkien book.
4:20pm – Another dead end. I really thought this was the way. We’ll just turn in the direction of the setting sun. The sun sets in the East, which is the way we need to go. Really? Shit. In the West? Did that change recently, maybe with global warming?
4:21pm – Weren’t we just here? No, not just standing in front of a wall of corn. Standing in front of this very wall of corn.
4:23pm – I wish you were an African rebel right now because then you’d have a machete. They always have machetes to hack their way through cane and oppressors.
4:25pm – Guys, look at the camera on my phone. Tell me your names and ages. And what you had hoped to be when you grow up. Don’t say a pirate, that’s not how you want to be remembered on 48 Hours. Say an astronaut. Christ, NASA doesn’t exist anymore. Say a Senator. Just say it. Now stare sadly at your hands and look skinny while I pan the camera through the corn.
4:28pm – I hear children whispering ‘Malachi’ down this lane. I swear, I do. I hear them….
4:30pm – I’m hungry. And thirsty. And anxious. This is like the Weight Watchers Trinity of Fucked.
4:33pm – What do we do at nightfall? We need shelter. We need fire. We need prey. I can’t stop talking in survival terms. Rations. Hypothermia. I’m just saying words now. And I can’t stop. Flares. Smoke signals.
4:35pm – I know this is an uncomfortable parenting dilemma, but I think it’s on your mind, too: Which child do…we…sacrifice first once starvation sets in? We need to establish the rules before our logic is clouded by hunger. I think the oldest. That gives us more time to save for college for the younger two. Wait, what about the baby? We didn’t bank her cord blood anyway so we may have subconsciously made this decision when she was born.
4:38pm – Remember when I told you that my wallet was stolen and that’s why I couldn’t buy you an anniversary gift? I lied. I spent all my money on that scarf that you hate. No, it wasn’t a present from my mom. That was a lie, too.
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