In The Summertime	 In The Summertime

 by ingrid

 

 

  

 The halcyon days of August had come to Smallville and not a moment too
soon. 

 Jonathan Kent spent the better part of thirty years dreading the month,
with its stale, dirt-smoked heat, endless work preparing for harvest and
the nights that pulsed with a sluggish beat, reminiscent of a dying man's
breath. 

 Summer was the cruelest season to the farmer, August being the most
sadistic of its months. Every day meant a tremulous walk to the fields
where he'd spend hours muttering curses as dead crops, sometimes entire
fields of them, crumbled between his aching fingers. So close, yet so far
away was harvest and if the thundering rains didn't come soon ... 

 But today, Jonathan Kent was determined to enjoy summer. 

 The route of his morning walk changed dramatically. It was straight to
the cellar where behind his family's secrets lay a box of his son's old
playthings. Included in them was the summertime fun, its contents now
dusty and mostly forgotten by his boy of sixteen. 

 His precious boy, Clark. Still sweet now, even sweeter then when he'd
leap and squeak like a baby frog around this very box, knowing what was
coming. The inflatable pool, covered with laughing fish, which would be
methodically examined and unfolded with a precision that would make NASA
proud. 

 Blowing it up was a labor of love, one that left Jonathan red in the face
for hours afterwards. Clark would watch his huffing and puffing, those
comic gasps for air, encouraging him with claps and jumps for every inch
gained against the plastic. It would soon outgrow his lap, turning into an
unwieldy behemoth, taut and ready for filling with lukewarm hose water. 

 He chuckled at the memory, then pulled down the bicycle pump. Old men
needed all the air they could grab. 

 The inflating went quickly this time. He was surprised to see how well
the thing had survived the years, considering Clark's rough treatment of
it as he grew older. Not rough on purpose, no, never like that, just the
normal wear and tear suffered by all the things Clark loved too much. 

 Jonathan whistled while he filled the pool as the garden hose uncoiled
like a snake around his ankles. Cool water, the farm's life blood and he
couldn't recall how many emergency drought ordinances he was breaking by
letting gallon after gallon pour out so frivolously. 

 Whatever. He'd dump it on the garden afterwards where Martha's sunflowers
were just about to burst forth. 

 He examined the flower garden, his wife's third great love after Clark
and himself. Such colorful, wild beauty; it was a compliment to the
endless dull acres he'd tended for most of his life. Rather like the woman
herself, the girl who could have done so much better but chose him instead
-- Beauty and the Boring. 

 The pool was close to overflowing so he turned off the hose. Strode back
into the house and emerged fully armed for a party of one. Radio, check.
Swim shorts, got it. Cooler of beers, without a doubt. Tapes of music to
scorch by, yep. 

 A big ball full of lazy, you betcha. 

 Everything was set up carefully. He dipped his toe into the water with
exaggerated caution. Cool, not freezing .... perfect. With a groan he slid
down, the plastic squeaking beneath his weight yet still holding up. He'd
have to write a letter to the manufacturers someday; they made a quality
product. 

 He settled back beneath the blazing sun, crossing his ankles over the
pool's soft edge. Water lapped beneath his back and the beer slid down his
throat very nicely. On the radio some old rock tune played and Ray Davies
sang dolefully about the pains of fortune's reversals. 

 Jonathan nodded in time to the song, not drunk enough yet to sing along.
Maybe in a few more beers. 

 The sun was really blazing now. He regretted for a second the lack of
sunscreen on his nose, then had to laugh. His skin had been burnt to a
football-like consistency from the time he was twelve, why get vain now?
Martha always bugged him about skin cancer, about the pain of having bits
of you chopped off and thrown away piece by agonizing piece, but he
already knew all about that. 

 Clark never got sunburned. He was naturally olive-toned, with beautiful
soft skin that never turned rough or dry. A handsome boy, kind and good,
and he was going to go places, that fine son of his. Places Jonathan only
visited once or twice in his life, but his Clark was going to make it
wherever he went. 

 Metropolis, probably. Maybe St. Louis or even New York. He'd get his
education, make his way through this hard world and Jonathan drank away
the twinge of fear that curled through his belly at the thought of Clark
being left on his own. 

 He'd had dreams once, selfish ones of trapping Clark on the farm, through
guilt or guile. Keeping him as his father had kept him, chained to the
whims of fickle weather and even fickler fortune. 

 But Jonathan Kent loved his son. He wasn't going to do that to him. 

 Even if he could have. 

 The radio signal turned scratchy. Jonathan grumbled then smacked it with
a wet fist. The station changed over to something country and he closed
his eyes until everything turned into hot pink spots behind his burning
eyelids. There was something to be said for being lazy, he thought, the
skin of his hands pruning just enough to be uncomfortable. 

 He sighed, shifted and reached for another beer. Popped it open and
picked up the letter he'd ripped in half upon receiving it early that
morning. Held the pieces together with wet fingers and its bold letters
darkened beneath the dripping water. 

 "NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE, KENT ORGANIC FARMS." 

 He stared at the words then let the lone summer breeze carry the bits
away where they tore and flapped against the long-dead stalks. Somewhere
Tennessee Williams was singing about hard times, but that was a song from
a lifetime ago, when Jonathan Kent was his father's son. 

 Jonathan Kent was something else now. A father to a man who was going to
be everything he couldn't be, everything he could wish for, all of
summertime's hopes and dreams blazing brighter than an August sun at noon.


 Bright like an arrow through the sky.	 
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