The Coffee Pot at the Feed Store

Eleven

The bell rang again at 5:06. It was Leonard Pruitt, who looked around and said, “Well, if this don’t beat all,” and went and sat on an overturned bucket because Dale did not have stools.

Then the Ahrens brothers. Then Bill Fogel, who took his first sip of black coffee and said it was too strong.

By the time I topped off Harlan’s mug from the carafe, four more were at the counter, leaning on it in their canvas coats with their mugs in their hands, talking about moisture readings and what the elevator had paid on Friday, just exactly like they had every morning of my life.

By 5:30 there were eleven men in seed caps in that feed store. Dale had to drag out a pallet of salt blocks for people to sit on.

Nobody made a speech. Nobody said a word against the cafe. That is not how those men are. They just drank their coffee and ate Dale’s donuts and argued about whether it would rain on Wednesday, and around six they started heading out to their pickups, because the dew was coming off and there was corn to get in.

I watched them go. And then I looked across the street.

Ryan was standing at the cafe’s front window. Behind him the dining room was lit up warm and pretty, with those new green booths, and it was empty. Not one customer.

He stood there a long time. I could not see his face, only the shape of him against the light. Then Brooke came up behind him and said something, and put her hand on his back, and he turned away.

I did not feel good about that. I want to be honest. I thought I would, and I did not.

When the last truck pulled out, I counted the coffee can. Forty-one dollars for the 4-H.

Harlan was the last to leave. He stopped at the door with his walker and looked back.

“Same time tomorrow, Deborah?”

“Same time tomorrow,” I said.