The Quilt on Our Pickup Tailgate

Brian

My husband, Brian, works second shift at the John Deere plant in Waterloo. He leaves at two in the afternoon and gets home after midnight, and on a fair week he lives on about five hours of sleep, because he likes to be at the cattle barn in the mornings with his buddies.

He called on his break at ten-thirty. I had texted him from the parking lot.

“Tell me exactly what she said,” he said.

I told him. I told him about the tag and page eleven and “rules are rules,” and then I told him about two o’clock and “you’re all set.”

He was quiet for a long time. Behind him I could hear the plant, a big steady roar like a river.

You have to understand something. Carla is Brian’s big sister. She is five years older than him, and she more or less raised him on the farm while their folks were out in the field. She drove him to Little League. She bought him his first razor. He loves her the way you love a person who was hard on you because somebody had to be.

“She’s my sister,” Brian said finally.

“I know.”

“I’m going to call her.”

“Not tonight,” I said. “Please. If you call her tonight it turns into you and her, and then it’s Christmas, and then it’s ten years. Let me think.”

“Can you appeal?”

I had the fair book open on the kitchen table already. I had read page eleven four times.

“Protests go in writing to the fair board,” I said. “The fair board meets Thursday night at seven. Judging is tomorrow at nine. They give out the scholarship when the judge finishes the sewing class. By the time anybody reads my letter, it’s over.”

Brian let out a breath.

“So it’s over,” he said.

“It’s over for the ribbon,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s over for the quilt.”

He did not say anything for a second. Then he said, “Jen. Whatever you’re going to do. Hang it anyway. I’ll back you with Carla. I’ll back you with Mom. I’ll back you with the whole county.”

That is the kind of man I married. He does not talk much. When he does, it holds.