Whistle Down the Wind

by Caroline

http://linabean4.tripod.com

Feedback: <lays head on your knee and looks up entreatingly, with big sweet eyes> ...Sigh. No, I'm not asking for Snausages. But, well, actually, I'll take whatever you want to give me. I'm fannishbean@gmail.com

Whistle Down the Wind
by Caroline

Clark brought his hand up under the short sleeve of his T-shirt. After a moment, he scratched a spot there. He gave his arm a squeeze, then let his hand drop.

He looked up at the sky. It was starting to look bruised. The short gusts of wind didn't do anything to dissipate the heaviness of the air.

That didn't mean anything, though. Every afternoon, late in the day, had been like that this week. The land still stayed dry.

It wasn't a drought, though--far too early to worry about that. But the crops, looking so vibrantly green against the gray sky, seemed to be...expecting something.

They didn't have too much to expect. It would be the same this year, almost certainly, as it had the last, and the year before that. It seemed unlikely that shifting public opinions about chemicals and genetic modification would change anything. While organic products crept onto more and more grocers' shelves, their expense kept them from finding their way into most people's larders.

The whole town had pretty much gone organic. The remaining Smallville residents, with their parcels of land, couldn't expect to compete with the corporations running their huge, conventional farms.

There were a lot of soybean farmers now. Smallville was no longer the creamed corn capital of the world. But, then, it hadn't been for a long, long time.

Funny about those meteorites. They'd had their chance at vainglory--back in the day, it seemed like they'd produce a new exhibit for the freak show every other week. Aberrations were much quieter now. Calves were still born deformed. A lot of people had tumors growing inside them. But no one seemed driven to homicidal mania--when it happened, it was in a booze-fogged bar or the sweaty bed of the wrong man or other woman.

Could the meteorites have stopped acting out when there was no one left who wanted to watch? No cub reporting, no...scientific investigations...just people looking after themselves and their own.

Clark watched a familiar truck pull up by the porch. He lifted a hand in greeting.

Whitney came out of the cab, bringing two cups of coffee and a newspaper. "Hey, Kent," he said gently.

Clark nodded and took his coffee. For all of its slow turn inward, Smallville had a Starbucks now instead of the Beanery. He took a sip. The Starbucks was better.

"How are Sally and Ben?" Clark asked after a moment.

Whitney smiled. "They're great." He drank some of his own coffee. "...This is always a hard time of year for them, though. It was around this time when...well, the treatment just stopped working."

Clark nodded.

"Ben especially gets upset..." Whitney said. "He dreams about the nosebleeds and clumps of hair...but he's starting to forget her voice."

Clark pressed his lips together in sympathy, then looked down at the ground.

"Here," Whitney said, laying the folded newspaper on the porch rail.

Clark looked down at it. 'Gov. Luthor vows to bring rural areas "into 21st century".' He rubbed his finger lightly over the headline.

Whitney followed his gaze. "It's good someone's finally taking care of that, huh?"

Clark shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"You sure you don't want me to get you hooked back up to the Internet?"

Clark smiled faintly. "I like the quiet."

Whitney nodded. He followed Clark's gaze out into the field. "Lana's house used to be right there, right?"

"Mm," Clark said. "A little more to the west."

"Right," Whitney nodded. "...She's doing well, it sounds like. I didn't tell you, she sent a card for Sally's birthday a few weeks ago."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She says she loves it in Chicago."

"She always did seem ready for bigger things than this, didn't she," Clark said.

Whitney smiled a little. "Yeah...but I guess we all did."

Clark turned over the newspaper and looked at the headline above the fold. 'Dozens dead in L.A. earthquake; more missing.' Under it read the smaller headline, 'Fires continue to blaze.'

He folded the newspaper a second time and handed it to Whitney. "Thanks," he said.

"...Sure," Whitney said. He glanced at it, then tucked it into his back pocket.

He gazed at Clark's profile. After a moment, he touched Clark's cheek. "Hey," he said softly. "You want me to come in with you?"

"...Hm?" Clark blinked and turned to face Whitney. He smiled easily. "Not today."

Whitney nodded. "Sure."

A sudden wind ruffled both their hair.

"Listen," Whitney said. "Come into town sometime this week. People'd be glad to see you."

Clark drank some more coffee. "We'll see."

"Okay," Whitney said. He squeezed Clark's shoulder. "I'll see you later."

Clark nodded, then watched the truck pull away.

He set down his coffee cup and looked out at the corn. The land here, even pocked with craters, was good. It had been a relief to see the frames for the Pleasant Meadows project pulled down, and living things planted in the rich soil in their place.

He turned around and regarded his own house. It was really much bigger than it needed to be. He could tear some of it down, rebuild. There'd be more room for the garden. He could put in tulips.

He stepped out from under the porch and looked up. A few drops hit his cheeks. It was starting to rain.

The end

I got the idea for this fic from Tom Waits' "Whistle Down the Wind." It's a good song. You should give it a listen. I debated whether I should include the lyrics here, because how much good do they do you if you don't know the tune? But I put 'em here, anyway. <shrug> I figure you can just skip them if you want.

I grew up here all of my life,
But I dreamed someday I'd go
Where the blue-eyed girls and red guitars And the naked rivers flow.

Now I'm not all I thought that I'd be,
Well, I've always stayed around,
I've been as far as Mercy and Grand,
Frozen to the ground.

Well, I can't stay here, and I'm scared to leave, Just kiss me once, and then, I'll go to hell,
I might as well
Be whistlin' down the wind,
The bus at the corner, the clock on the wall, The broken-down windmill, there ain't no wind at all I've yelled and I cursed, "If I stay here I'll rust,"
I'm stuck like a shipwreck
Out here in the dust.

The sky is red, and the world is on fire, And the corn is taller than me The dog is tied to a wagon of rain,
And the road is as wet as the sea.
And sometimes the music from a dance
Will carry across the plains,
And the places that I'm dreaming of,
Do they dream only of me?

There are places where they never sleep And the circus never ends So I will take the Marley Bone Coach
And whistle down the wind.