The White Oak My Husband Sold

“He did,” Lonnie said. “And I let it slide because he was in a hurry and I liked him, and because your sister was sick and I didn’t want to bother you at the hospital over a piece of paper. That’s the truth, and it’s no excuse.”

Then he asked me straight out whether I wanted him off the place. He said he would load his equipment that afternoon if I said so, and we could sort out the money however I thought was right.

I thought about it, sitting there at my desk with the radiator knocking.

“Finish what you marked,” I told Lonnie. “Cut it clean and fix the ruts when you’re done. But the rest of the money comes to me. And I want the contract written up right, with the landowner’s name where it belongs.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I can be at the courthouse at noon.”

He came at noon on the dot, in a clean flannel shirt with his hard hat left in the truck.

We sat at the little table in the back by the map cabinet.

He had a fresh contract, the same terms, with my name typed in as landowner and seller. Twenty-four thousand dollars remaining, in two checks of twelve, payable to Renee Albrecht.

He had added one line at the bottom in his own handwriting: Logger to repair skid trails and landing, install water bars, and seed and straw disturbed ground before final payment. He turned the page around so I could read it.

“I should have put that on the first one too,” he said. “I’d have gotten to it. But you ought to see it in writing.”

When we were done Lonnie folded his copy and put it in his shirt pocket. He stood up and put his cap back on.

Then at the door he stopped and turned around like something had just come to him.

“Was Ray Hollis your grandfather?” he asked. “Drove the school bus out on the Brushy Knob route?”

“He was,” I said. “He drove it thirty-one years.”

Lonnie nodded slowly, the way men his age do when a thing settles into place for them.

He looked like he was going to say more. Then he didn’t. He just said, “All right then,” and went out to his truck.

I found out later that Lonnie called Jeff that same afternoon and told him the rest of the checks were going to me.

Jeff called me at six that evening. I was back in Springfield by then, sitting beside Beth’s bed while she slept. I watched his name light up on my phone four times, and I let it ring.

Then he texted. “Renee, I can explain. Please call me.” And twenty minutes later: “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything.” I typed three different answers and erased all of them.

Finally I wrote, “Beth is bad tonight. I can’t do this here. Monday.” And then I turned the phone face down on the tray table and went and wet a washcloth for Beth’s forehead.

That weekend was a long one. Beth’s counts dropped, and she ran a low fever Saturday that scared the nurses enough to start talking about holding her next round.

Sometime late Saturday night she opened her eyes and looked at me in that recliner.

The room was dark except for the blue light on her pump. I thought she was asleep again, and then she said my name.

“Renee,” she said, “you’ve had a face on you since Thursday. Don’t tell me it’s me. I know what my face does to people. This is something else.”