Arlen Voss stared at me for so long that I began to wonder whether he had heard the words correctly. His hands remained folded on the table, the knuckles swollen from years of cold weather and hard work. The clock above the stove marked several seconds. Then he looked toward the pie I had brought, as if it might explain why I was sitting in his kitchen telling him that the hay he had purchased belonged to a woman who had never agreed to sell it.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you saying Dwayne had no permission at all?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNone.\u201d<\/p>\n
The old man took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. He was seventy-eight, narrow through the shoulders, with bowed legs and a stiffness in his right knee that had grown worse over the years. I had known him since Tom and I moved to the ranch. Arlen had always been a careful speaker, a man who preferred thinking something over before putting it into words. Now he looked troubled enough to forget his usual caution.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me you were selling out,\u201d he said. \u201cSaid you weren't going to keep the cattle and that you needed cash before the bills caught up with you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid he say I was moving?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe made it sound that way. Said you and Ben couldn't manage the place without Tom.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pressed my lips together. Hearing Dwayne's words repeated by somebody else was worse than listening to him say them himself. Inside our kitchen, his remarks had sounded like the familiar arrogance I had endured for years. Here, in Arlen's quiet house, I understood how convincing they might have seemed. A woman had just buried her husband. Medical bills were waiting. Her teenage son was still in school. A brother-in-law appeared claiming that a difficult decision had been made. Arlen had no reason to imagine someone would be bold enough to invent the entire arrangement.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't blame you for believing him,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Arlen gave me a look sharp enough to stop me. \u201cYou don't have to spare my feelings. I should've picked up the telephone and asked you myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe's Tom's brother.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat doesn't make him your spokesman.\u201d<\/p>\n
I had expected resistance. I had imagined Arlen telling me that he had already paid and that my problem belonged with Dwayne. I had prepared to explain that we needed the feed, that no sale had been authorized, and that a formal complaint could become necessary. His immediate admission of responsibility unsettled me more than an argument would have. I was not prepared for somebody to recognize the wrong without first being forced to defend himself.<\/p>\n
Arlen rose slowly and walked to a drawer near the stove. He searched through a collection of envelopes, bills, and old feed-store calendars before finding a folded receipt. He brought it to the table and flattened it beneath his palm. Dwayne had written the date and the number of bales on it. Eighty bales at eight dollars each. There was no signature from me, no document authorizing a sale, and no indication that Dwayne owned the hay. Just his name and a sum of money.<\/p>\n
\u201cSix hundred and forty dollars,\u201d Arlen said. \u201cThat's what I gave him.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the receipt. \u201cDid he tell you why the price was so low?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cClaimed you wanted the hay gone quickly. Said you were more concerned about having it moved than getting a good price. I asked him twice whether you knew what it was worth.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what did he say?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me you didn't want to deal with any of it anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n
The answer made me feel briefly sick. During the last weeks of Tom's illness, I had sometimes wished for a day without decisions. Every conversation seemed to involve a medication schedule, a bill, or some arrangement that could not be postponed. But that had never meant I wanted to abandon our ranch. Dwayne had apparently mistaken my exhaustion for surrender, or at least had hoped that other people would believe I had surrendered. I wondered how many times he had told himself his story before deciding he could repeat it without shame.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are the bales now?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Arlen nodded toward the yard. \u201cStacked behind the machine shed. Haven't used any yet.\u201d<\/p>\n
A small movement of relief passed through me. I had been afraid he might already have fed some of the cutting or mixed it into an older stack where it could not easily be separated. Tom had marked his bales with a particular arrangement of twine, but hay did not remain recognizable forever. Once it was cut open, fed, or hauled from place to place, recovering it could become impossible. Knowing the eighty were still together made the problem suddenly more manageable.<\/p>\n
\u201cWould you show me?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n
He put on his hat and led me through the back door. The morning had warmed slightly, though the wind was still sharp enough to raise dust along the driveway. We walked past a row of machinery that looked older than either of us wanted to admit. Arlen moved carefully over the uneven ground. I resisted the urge to offer my arm. He valued his independence, and I understood that feeling better than I had a month earlier. We reached the machine shed, where a neat stack of round bales stood beneath a loose shelter of corrugated metal.<\/p>\n
I recognized Tom's cutting before I reached it. There was something distinctive about the color of that grass, a deeper green beneath the yellow where the crop had cured evenly. A few bales still held narrow strips of weed from the low ground near the old windbreak. I placed my hand against one and felt the tightness of the outer layer. Tom had always fussed about getting the density right. He said poorly made bales looked impressive until winter rain found every loose space.<\/p>\n
Arlen stood beside me. \u201cThat's good hay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cIt is.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTom put it up himself?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBen helped with the rake, and I worked where I could. But Tom wanted to finish the cutting. He wouldn't let us hire anybody.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen looked toward the stack. He knew about the illness, of course. He had visited Tom during treatment, bringing jars of pickles and stories about troublesome calves. But I don't think he had understood how much effort the cutting required. People saw Tom driving the tractor and assumed that because he was working, he must still have considerable strength. They did not see what happened afterward, when I helped him remove his boots because his hands were shaking too badly to grasp them.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was hardheaded,\u201d Arlen said.<\/p>\n
\u201cMore than you know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. About as much as I know.\u201d He paused. \u201cThat's why you two got along.\u201d<\/p>\n
The remark surprised a laugh out of me. Arlen smiled briefly, then looked away. We stood together without speaking. I could hear a loose piece of metal rattling against the shed and, farther off, the low call of a cow. A few weeks earlier, I would have listened to those sounds without noticing them. Now they seemed to belong to a world that had continued operating after my own life had stopped making sense.<\/p>\n
I counted the bales as we walked around the stack. There were eighty, arranged in rows that could be loaded without disturbing the older hay behind them. I wrote the number in my notebook. Arlen watched me, and I could tell he was considering something he had not yet said. When I finished, he asked how many cattle we intended to keep. I told him forty pairs, the same number we had wintered the previous year, though I had considered reducing the herd if feed became too expensive.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you make it on what you have left?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot safely.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you planning to do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI came to ask whether you'd be willing to return these. I know you paid for them. I'm not pretending you didn't.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at the stack rather than at me. \u201cAnd if I said no?\u201d<\/p>\n
I hesitated. It was the question I had been preparing myself to answer since the previous night. I had no desire to threaten an old neighbor, especially one who had been kind to us. But there was a point beyond which politeness would become negligence. I was responsible for the cattle and for Ben's future. Those responsibilities did not disappear because confrontation made me uncomfortable.<\/p>\n
\u201cI would go to Gene and the Reyes family next,\u201d I said. \u201cThen I'd take my records to the sheriff. I hope it won't come to that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen nodded. He did not seem offended. \u201cThat's what you should do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI'd rather settle it without involving everybody in a legal mess.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere's already a mess, Karen. Dwayne made it.\u201d<\/p>\n
We walked back toward the house. Arlen stopped near his truck and studied the flatbed as though calculating how much work his old back could tolerate. The vehicle was a faded green Ford with a mounted hay spike, the sort of equipment that had been repaired repeatedly rather than replaced. One corner of the bed had rusted through, and the passenger door was a different shade of green from the rest. Tom used to joke that Arlen's truck was held together by stubbornness and parts he found at farm auctions.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow's Ben taking all this?\u201d Arlen asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cPoorly.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was close to his dad.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe worked beside him almost every day.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen nodded. \u201cI saw the boy at the funeral. He looked like he'd forgotten how to stand still.\u201d<\/p>\n
That description brought a sudden ache to my chest. Ben had spent the funeral moving from one group of people to another, carrying chairs, fetching water, and answering questions nobody should have expected a grieving child to answer. He had wanted to be useful because usefulness was the way Tom expressed love. I worried that Ben might spend the rest of his life believing he was responsible for everything his father could no longer do.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe wanted me to call the sheriff yesterday,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can't blame him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe thinks I'm letting Dwayne get away with it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen leaned against his truck. \u201cYou aren't, are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. I just want the feed returned before I decide anything else.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he asked whether I had eaten breakfast. When I told him I had only managed coffee, he took my elbow gently and steered me back toward the house. He said no important discussion ought to continue on an empty stomach, particularly when somebody had brought a pie. I followed him inside, partly because I was hungry and partly because I sensed he needed time to decide how much of the responsibility he was willing to accept.<\/p>\n
In the kitchen, Arlen cut two uneven slices and placed them on mismatched plates. He poured fresh coffee and sat across from me. Dorothy's absence was everywhere. A pair of reading glasses lay beside the window, and a small photograph showed her standing in front of their house, smiling into the wind. The calendar still displayed August even though September was nearly over. I wondered whether Arlen had simply forgotten to turn the page or whether Dorothy had always done it for him. Grief had a way of making the smallest household tasks unexpectedly difficult.<\/p>\n
\u201cDorothy always said you made better rhubarb pie than anybody in the county,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe was kind enough to say that about everything I brought.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe wasn't kind about bad cooking. You should've heard what she thought of mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
He smiled at the memory, then grew quiet. I ate a little pie and waited. My instinct was to fill the silence, but years with Tom had taught me that some people needed room to arrive at their thoughts. Arlen studied the receipt he had brought back to the table. His thumb moved over the paper, following the line with Dwayne's name. Finally, he folded it and placed it beside his plate.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew that price was wrong,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
I looked up. \u201cYou were told I wanted a quick sale.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat's what I let myself believe.\u201d<\/p>\n
He shook his head slowly. \u201cI've bought enough hay to know the difference between a bargain and something that shouldn't be happening. Eight dollars was too cheap. I asked questions, but I didn't ask the person who could answer them. When Dwayne said you were selling, I figured he knew what he was doing. It was easier that way.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cArlen, you didn't arrange this.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. But I benefited from it.\u201d<\/p>\n
He spoke without bitterness or defensiveness. He was not asking me to reassure him. He was making a judgment about his own behavior and seemed determined not to escape it. I thought about how differently Dwayne had responded when confronted. My brother-in-law had treated every question as an insult. Arlen was examining his part in the transaction even though he might have avoided blame simply by pointing to the man who had sold him the feed.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou paid for what you believed you were buying,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI paid almost nothing for something worth plenty. That's what I believed I was buying.\u201d<\/p>\n
He pushed his chair back and stood. For a moment, I thought he intended to end the conversation. Instead, he walked to the window and looked toward the machine shed. The morning sun had climbed above the trees, and its light fell across the gravel yard. He remained there long enough that I began to worry he was reconsidering. Eighty bales represented real value. Returning them would mean losing feed he had planned to use, and I could not assume he would be comfortable doing that without compensation.<\/p>\n
Then Arlen turned toward me. \u201cThose bales belong on your place.\u201d<\/p>\n
I swallowed. \u201cYou mean that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEvery one of them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can't give you the market value right now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI haven't asked you to.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can return what you paid Dwayne.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen made a dismissive motion with one hand. \u201cYou need that money more than I do. If somebody wants to chase Dwayne for it, that's another matter. I'm not keeping hay that was taken from you without permission.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt the relief arrive so suddenly that it was almost painful. For twenty-four hours, I had been trying to solve an emergency with numbers that did not work. Now the first eighty bales were coming home. It was not enough to secure our winter, but it changed the shape of the problem. I could approach Gene and the Reyes couple knowing at least one person had chosen to do the right thing. I put down my fork because my hand was no longer steady enough to hold it.<\/p>\n
Arlen noticed. He poured more coffee and gave me a moment without comment. Then he asked where I wanted the bales unloaded. I told him about the stackyard behind our barn, the same place we had used for years. He nodded, already organizing the work in his head. I reminded him that his back had been bothering him and suggested that Ben and I could come collect the hay with our equipment. Arlen refused before I had finished explaining how we might manage it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI bought them from your yard,\u201d he said. \u201cI'll return them to your yard.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut eighty bales is a lot of hauling.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen I'll make more than one trip.\u201d<\/p>\n
I studied him. He was moving slowly, favoring his right leg, but there was no uncertainty in his voice. I understood that arguing would only waste time. Tom had once said that Arlen became more determined whenever somebody tried to protect him from a difficult job. Apparently, being seventy-eight had not changed that. I told him Ben could meet him at our place with the loader. Arlen agreed, then asked whether I had a telephone number for Gene Pokorny.<\/p>\n
\u201cI do. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause he needs to hear what Dwayne told you. I'll speak to him after we get started.\u201d<\/p>\n
I hesitated. \u201cI'd rather tell him myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should. But I can explain what I know. Gene and Tom have known each other since they were boys. He'll want the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n
I thought about Gene standing beside Tom's grave, his broad shoulders hunched beneath a dark jacket that did not quite fit. He had shaken Ben's hand and told him to call if anything needed doing. At the time, I had barely heard the words. Since then, I had wondered whether they had been spoken from genuine concern or simply because people felt obliged to say such things at funerals. Arlen seemed certain that Gene would not ignore what had happened. I wanted to share his confidence, but I was not ready to assume anything.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet me speak to him after the first load comes home,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Arlen considered that and nodded. \u201cFair enough.\u201d<\/p>\n
He went to the door, then paused with his hand on the knob. When he turned back, his expression had changed. Something deeper than embarrassment was troubling him. His eyes settled on the photograph of Dorothy beside the window. He picked up his hat and held it in both hands, turning it slowly. I had seen him do the same thing at her funeral two winters earlier, when he stood beside her coffin and seemed unable to find a place for his hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cTom helped me through a bad night once,\u201d Arlen said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe helped a lot of people.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't think you know about this one.\u201d<\/p>\n
I waited. Arlen looked toward the photograph again, then shook his head. He seemed to decide that whatever memory had risen in him could wait until the work was done. He replaced the hat on his head and opened the door. I did not press him. If there was one thing I had learned from living with Tom, it was that a man who needed time to speak would not become more comfortable because somebody demanded an explanation.<\/p>\n
\u201cFinish your breakfast,\u201d Arlen said. \u201cI'll bring the Ford around.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stepped outside before I could argue. Through the kitchen window, I watched him cross the yard with the careful gait of a man whose joints had endured too many winters. He checked a tire, adjusted a chain on the flatbed, and climbed into the cab. The engine coughed twice before starting. I sat alone with the unfinished pie and looked at Dorothy's photograph. Whatever story Arlen had almost told me, it had something to do with Tom, and judging by the old man's face, it mattered.<\/p>\n
A few minutes later, I went outside carrying my notebook. Arlen had backed the flatbed toward the stack, and the hay spike was raised into position. He climbed down, handed me a pair of work gloves, and pointed toward a safe place where I could stand while he loaded. I knew better than to interfere with a running piece of equipment. I watched him move the first bale, then the next, using slow, practiced motions. He checked the ropes after every addition. By the time he had sixteen secured, sweat darkened the collar of his shirt.<\/p>\n
He turned off the engine and came toward me. \u201cThat's all I'll put on this trip. I'll be back for the rest.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cArlen, you've already done enough for one morning.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at the loaded flatbed and shook his head. \u201cNot yet.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then he took a breath, reached for the folded receipt in his pocket, and tore it into small pieces. He let them fall into his palm rather than scattering them across the yard. When he spoke, his voice was rough but certain.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour husband spent his last strength putting up that hay for you and Ben. I should've remembered what kind of man he was before I let his brother talk me into a bargain. Those sixteen are going home now. The other sixty-four will follow.\u201d<\/p>\n
He climbed into the Ford, started the engine, and waited until I was clear of the trailer. I watched him pull slowly out of the yard. For the first time since Dwayne had entered my kitchen, I felt that we might survive the winter without losing what Tom had worked so hard to protect. But I also knew that eighty bales would not be enough. Somewhere across the county, Gene Pokorny held another hundred, and thirty-two more were sitting on property belonging to people I barely knew.<\/p>\n
I took out my phone and called Ben. When he answered, I could hear the tractor idling nearby. I told him to clear the stackyard and prepare the loader. He asked how many bales were coming. I looked down the road, where the old green truck was already disappearing beyond the rise.<\/p>\n
\u201cSixteen on the first load,\u201d I said. \u201cEighty altogether. And Ben, there's something else. Arlen wants to help us speak to Gene.\u201d<\/p>\n
My son was silent for several seconds. Then I heard him shut off the tractor.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom,\u201d he said quietly, \u201cdoes that mean we're getting Dad's hay back?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked toward the field and answered as carefully as I could.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt means the first of it is coming home.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen Voss stared at me for so long that I began to wonder whether he had heard the words correctly. His hands remained folded on the table, the knuckles swollen … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":5418,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5421","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-drama-sory"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5421","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5421"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5421\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5436,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5421\/revisions\/5436"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/5418"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5421"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5421"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5421"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}