Free A Rhinestone Button by Gail Anderson-Dargatz Page B

flight.
    Job’s head began to throb. He nestled the duck like a baby, in the crook of one arm. Checked his scalp. Found a tender spot at the cap of his skull but no wound. He saw a blaze of dust stretching up the road, turning into his driveway, and couldn’t think who it would be. He quickened his step before realizing with a start that the dust was the television crew. But he didn’t run. He felt a strange mix of drowsiness and clarity, and the landscape was different somehow. The colours of sounds were muted, faded. The crow’s caw was a transparent tongue of sky blue, not the usual wedge of navy. When he followed the fenceline towards the house, the shush of his legs passing through grass was hardly visible, though usually it offered up a pleasant sunflower-yellow haze. Now there was nothing but a shimmer.
    Job carried the bufflehead to the steps of the house, where Ben waited, his eyes still puffy from crying. “They’re at the crop circle. Dad told me to wait and tell you. He went into town for some meeting. What’s that?”
    “A duck.” Job carried the bufflehead out to the crop circle, prodded by his nephew’s questions. Had he shot it? Found it dead? Job didn’t answer. Words were too unwieldy, too heavy to bring up from inside himself. Even walking seemed difficult. All he was certain of were the silky feathers of the dead duck.
    “They’ve got a couple of other men with them who they’re going to interview,” said Ben. “Crop-circle experts. They’re in a hurry. We should run.” He took Job’s arm and tried to get him to pick up his pace. At other times Job would have run to the crew so they wouldn’t have to wait, apologized for the inconvenience he had caused, blushed in the effort to make peace. But at that moment he couldn’t fashion in his mind the thing that was being asked of him.
    A cameraman had set up just outside the crop circle. He wore a military-green vest with many pockets and didn’t bother to greet Job. Inside the circle, there was an interviewer Job recognized from an Edmonton news show, casually dressed, holding a mike. With him were two middle-aged men, both dressed in suits.
    The interviewer held out a hand. “Mr. Sunstrum. Thought we were going to miss you. I’m Dave Nash of ITV. I’ll be interviewing you and Mr. Mayer and Dr. Fisher here. All right?” When Job didn’t answer or even nod, he asked, “You okay?”
    “Yes.”
    “What you got there?”
    “Duck. A bufflehead.”
    “A pet?”
    “It’s dead.”
    “All right then. Tell us what you thought when you first saw the crop circle, Mr. Sunstrum. What did you think caused it?”
    “I thought it was God.” He realized this was a mistake. But felt committed now, caught in the truth.
    “God?”
    “A sign, from God.”
    “A sign?”
    “I was trying to make a decision. So I prayed. Asked God for a sign. Something in the air. I thought maybe a duck. Then Carlson was in the plane flying overhead and …”
    “The crop circle.”
    Job saw he was sinking, paddled harder. “But then Carlson was talking about aliens writing messages in the barley, or that maybe the circle was where a UFO landed. And my brother explained how all that talk about aliens is a demon conspiracy. So now I don’t know what to think.”
    “A demon conspiracy?”
    “The devil trying to get us to believe we’re not the only people in the universe, so that salvation doesn’t mean much. My brother’s a pastor.”
    “I see. A unique theory, Mr. Sunstrum. Well, there you have it, folks. God—or maybe the devil—reaches out and touches folks in Godsfinger.” He turned to one of the other men. “Dr. Fisher, what do you think caused the crop circle?”
    “There’s been all kinds of explanations for crop circles, anything from dust devils to plasma vortexes or ball lightning to landing marks left by alien craft. But most likely it’s pranksters.”
    “Some argue that the crop circles are too complex to be built by pranksters,”