Three Summers in the Corn

What my son said

I could repeat every word, because I have gone over them so many times since.

“Mr. Pohlman, my name is Caleb Fritz. I’m sorry to bother you at supper. That maroon Chevy by your shed was my truck. My dad sold it to you Monday.”

Vern looked past him at the truck, and then at me standing in the yard in my scrubs, and then back at Caleb. He folded his arms. He did not say anything.

“I want you to know it wasn’t stolen,” Caleb said. “His name was on the title. He had the right. I’m not here to make trouble for you. You paid for it fair.”

“Go on,” Vern said.

“I detasseled three summers for it. Since I was thirteen. Five o’clock buses. I saved a thousand every year and I paid three thousand for it, and it’s the only thing I ever bought.”

He held up the gloves, not like he was showing off, more like he did not know what else to do with his hands.

“I can’t buy it back. I don’t have the money anymore. But I can work. I’m asking if you’d let me work off every dollar you paid for it. Whatever you need done. I don’t care what it is. And if you say no, I understand, and I’ll go.”

Then he stopped. I could see his chest going up and down.

Vern Pohlman stood in that screen door for a long time with his arms folded. The yard light buzzed on over the shed. A cat came around the corner of the porch and sat down to watch, like it wanted to hear too.

I had my hand over my mouth. I didn’t know I’d put it there.

Then the old man unfolded his arms, and he opened his mouth to answer.