Free Drift by Jon McGoran

I can have a good life. A normal life. My last bit of operating capital went into that field of blue corn.” She shook her head. “Honest to God, chosen to match the bridesmaids’ gowns.”
    I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the quart of milk, but immediately turned on the taps and emptied it down the drain. “Sorry,” I said, handing her one of the cups. “I hope you don’t take milk.”
    She smiled. “It’s fine. I like it like this.” She held the cup with both hands, absorbing the warmth into her body.
    “So what now?” I asked.
    She shrugged, closing her eyes as she sipped her tea. “Who knows? I don’t even know what it is. It doesn’t look like smut or blight or wilt or any of the usual problems.”
    She took another sip, so I did, too. It wasn’t coffee.
    “What are you going to do?” I asked.
    “I know a horticulturist who works at the college out here.”
    I smiled. “There’s a college out here?”
    “Don’t be mean. Pine Crest Community has a very fine horticulture department.”
    “So, when are you going to call her?”
    “Him,” she said, looking at her watch. “He’s actually lecturing right now. It’s not far. It would probably be better if I just took the corn out there.” She paused again. “Any chance you feel like coming with me?”
    “Um … sure.”
    “It’s just that, well, I don’t want him to think there’s anything going on between you and me, but I definitely don’t want him to think there’s anything between him and me, either.”
    I laughed ruefully. She wanted me to cock block for her.
    “What?” she asked, reading my expression. “You don’t have to. It’s okay.”
    “No, that’s fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “Happy to help.”
    *   *   *
    Moose was sitting on the front steps, looking like a dog that had pooped on the rug. When we stepped out, he sprang to his feet.
    “Nola, listen, I’m really sorry,” he said. “But I swear, I did everything you said, just the way you said. Everything.”
    She put up a hand to silence him. “It’s okay, Moose. It’s all right.” She spoke calmly, but she didn’t look at him.
    “Where are you going?”
    She closed her eyes, like she didn’t want to answer him but she didn’t want to be rude. “We’re taking it to Jerry Simpkins,” she said, holding up the ear of corn in a big Ziploc bag.
    “Nola, I’m really sorry.”
    She put up her hand again. “Farming is like that.”
    I got behind the wheel of my car without thinking about it. Nola got in the passenger side without a word. Guess I was driving, then.
    “Make a right,” she said as I pulled out.
    I looked back at Moose, sitting down on the steps. I felt bad for him, whether he had screwed up or not. I could see on his face that he felt terrible.
    “Nice car,” she said as we drove away, looking at me with an amused expression.
    She was right, it was a sporty little thing, a Nissan Z with more bells and whistles than I could really afford. She seemed to be waiting for an explanation. I didn’t want to give her one, but I didn’t want her thinking I was compensating for anything other than the fact that I spend too much time in my car and have no life.
    “It used to belong to a guy named Oscar Quezada,” I told her, “a coke dealer who liked to laugh at my Corolla. When Quezada was busted and his car was seized, I made sure I knew when it was coming up at the auction.”
    I could feel her staring at me, trying to decide what to make of the story. I was still trying to figure that out myself.
    “I probably bid more than it was worth,” I said, “but I made sure I got it. And I made sure he saw me driving it.”

 
    17
     
    Pine Crest College was twenty minutes away, just off the interstate. It had that college campus look, all stone walls and brick walkways, but if you looked closely, you could see it was all textured concrete.
    We walked across a small quad, weaving between groups of students reading or talking, to a