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They’re at it again and won’t stop until they’ve taken everything from me. They’re destructive, self-serving, thinking only of their own needs, killing everything in their path. They take what they want and dinnae think of anyone but themselves.
Evil weevils.
I sweat and toil, the hot sun bringing smatterings of freckles to my cheeks, my fingers sore from work. Yet here the little buggers are, all over my broad beans, happily nibbling away, unaware of the sacrifices I’ve made to grow their snack. I hold the pod between my fingers, inspecting it one last time before tossing it into the soil of my raised bed.
Tomorrow, I’ll line the soil with unwrapped bars of soap to chase off those bugs.
I run my fingers over the broad, waxy leaf of a plump head of cabbage. I’m not fond of the smell, but I grew it for the professor. You can find him most days at our small, local university toiling over his one true love: the dwindling codfish population of our wee island.
Luckily, years ago, the Scottish Funding Council invested enough money to build a university on the island. Otherwise, I don’t know if I’d have been allowed to pursue further education.
With my conservative parents, the city was not an option for me.
The professor spends so much time alone researching that he’s taken me on to help him part-time, and in his solitude, my little heart just has to find ways to brighten his day.
Hence, the cabbage.
He makes a soup from it, swearing the nutrients in the overcooked, stinky broth keep his mind as sharp as a fisherman’s hook. Without me there to remind him to eat, he’d probably live off a diet of microwaved coffee and dusty air.
I should be shelving books for our professor today, with the scent of paper and leather to calm me as I work. Instead, I’ve taken the day off to care for Dad. Torn between caring for the two lonely men, I wonder if I should have gone to work late.
Dad woke looking peely-wally and said he wasn’t feeling well but then seemed agitated?—
The sound of the sliding glass door at the back of the house draws my attention. Was I so focused on gardening that I didn’t hear visitors pull up in front of the house?
I know everyone on the island, and thanks to the Golden Girls—the church choir members who are over sixty—who fill me in at practice on Thursday nights, I know who’s expecting visitors.
Besides Marta, who mentioned to Greta that she had to hoover the entire house and make a batch of her famous scones to please her grandkids, no one else mentioned guests. And I certainly would have remembered if one of the island’s Golden Girls boasted about expecting their mafia to arrive by the ferry this week.
My heart hitches into my throat as dangerous-looking men, men I don’t recognize, file toward me, their large, muscular frames enveloped in an array of dark leather and denim. Tattoos, beards, and heavy boots round out their fashion-forward crime style.
Intimidating. Massive. Strangers.
They march straight toward me with a determined gait, their eyes locked like predators closing in on their prey. My fingernails dig into the cabbage leaf before I stand and back up, my heart pounding so loudly I can barely hear anything else. Each step I take sinks deeper, the soft earth beneath my feet feeling like quicksand pulling me down as I desperately try to escape their looming presence.
They’re coming closer.
What kind of trouble has my father gotten himself into now?
And what will it take to send them away?
There’s nothing of value for them here. Other than Mam’s pale blue mixing bowl, and that’s of value only to me for the cherished memories it holds.
My heart races as the intimidating men approach me, their determined stride telling me they aren't here for a friendly visit. My mind races with questions, trying to figure out what my father’s done this time.
I take another step back, the soft earth closing around my feet. I'm starting to panic now, fear clawing at my chest as I try to devise a plan to get away from these strangers.
The lead man stops in front of me. He’s the only one without facial hair, his shaved head as hairless as his wide chin. A half smile rises on the broad face.
Do I run? Heave a cabbage head at them, a cannonball of potassium and vitamin C? Or do I welcome them?
I find politeness runs through my body involuntarily. I can’t refuse. Mam instilled manners in all her children. Offering a cup of tea to visitors is no different than a reflex, a heartbeat, or a blink.
Still, I’d be better off holding a weapon. Wrapping my hands around the cool head of cabbage, I pluck it from the earth, cradling it over my belly. “Hello there. I don’t believe I’ve seen you men around before. What brings you out to our beautiful island?”
The depths of his voice weakens my knees. “We’ve got a matter of business to take care of.”
My heart races as I confront the intimidating wall of muscle blocking my path. My hands tremble as I force myself to walk past them toward the looming house ahead. "Let's go inside and discuss this matter with my father," I manage to mutter, trying to sound confident.
