The Shop Door Opened at Seven

Dale

Dale was two years older than Rick. They grew up on the same farm, learned to weld from the same father, and went different directions.

Dale had always wanted the bigger thing. Fifteen years ago he bought a steel building out by Highway 12, put in two overhead doors and a parts counter, hired a couple of young men, and painted his name across the front in red letters you could read from the road.

He did good work. I will say that plainly, because it is true.

He also charged ninety five dollars an hour, and his schedule ran a week out in harvest.

The brothers were not close the way some brothers are. They were close the way a lot of men out here are close: they saw each other at Christmas and at funerals, they talked about weather and machinery, and they never once said anything that mattered.

At Rick’s funeral Dale stood in the back of the church. He did not come to the lunch in the basement. He shook Luke’s hand at the cemetery, said “Your dad was a good welder,” and drove away before the grave was filled.

I told myself that was just Dale. Then I saw the card.

The Calls

I called Dale from the co-op parking lot. It rang six times and went to his voicemail, the one his wife Karen had recorded for him years ago.

I did not leave a message. I did not know how to say what I needed to say to a machine.

I called again that night after supper. Six rings again. This time I said, “Dale, it’s Shelly. Call me, please.” I kept my voice even. I am proud of that.

He did not call. The next morning I drove past his shop on my way to the post office. Both doors were up. There were four pieces of machinery lined up in his lot, and I recognized two of them. One was Harold’s grain cart. The other was a hay rake I had written tickets for three summers in a row.

I did not stop.