The Dollar Farmhouse and the Upstairs

Sunday dinner

My parents came at noon on Sunday, right after church. Mom carried in a pan of scalloped corn like a shield.

Dad shook Dale’s hand and looked around the kitchen. The kids’ boots were piled by the back door. Brody’s sweatshirt was on a hook. Kenzie’s braid was still in from the night before, a little frizzy now, and Cole ran in from the porch to tell Grandma he was taller than Daddy.

“Is that right,” Mom said, and looked at me. We sat down. Dale said grace. The roast was good. The kids talked over each other. For about fifteen minutes, it was just a Sunday.

Then Mom put down her fork. “Well, Jeff,” she said, in her bright church voice. “This is a nice start. And once the papers on the house are signed, you can fix the upstairs up however you want. Or the whole place, really.”

Jeff stopped chewing. “What papers?” he said. Nobody said anything. Hannah looked at me. Dale set his glass down very carefully.

“What papers, Mom?” Jeff said again. Mom looked at Dad. Dad looked at his plate.

“Your sister is selling the house back to us,” Mom said. “For a dollar. So you and the kids can have it. We talked to her Tuesday.”

“She’s not,” I said quietly. “I never said that.”

“You said you’d have an answer Saturday.”

“I did,” I said. “He’s sitting upstairs. His kids are in it.” Jeff put both hands flat on the table. I watched him go red from the collar up, the way Dad does.

“You asked Tammy to give me her house,” he said. “Without telling me.”

“We were going to tell you when it was done,” Mom said. “We wanted it to be a surprise. Jeff, honey, you have nothing. Amber took the good car. You’ve got three kids on air mattresses. Your sister has Dale, and the hog barns, and Dale’s folks’ ground coming to them someday. She’ll land on her feet. She always lands on her feet.”

That was the reason. I had known it for forty-three years without anybody ever saying it out loud.

I always landed on my feet, so I was the one who could afford to fall.

Jeff stood up from the table. I thought he was going to walk out. Instead he stood there with his hands on the back of his chair and looked at our parents.

“I am forty-three years old,” he said. His voice was very calm. That’s how I knew how mad he was. Kirchners don’t yell when it matters.