The House That Rolled Past His Gate

The letter

I want to say this plainly because it matters to me. I did not sneak.

On the first of September, I wrote Lonnie a letter, because I don’t trust my voice when I’m hurt. I put it in his mailbox at the road.

It said, “Lonnie, I’ll be off your land by the first Tuesday in October like you asked. I’m taking what’s mine. I love you. Cheryl.”

He called me that night. He said, “Got your note. You find a place?” I said I had.

He said, “Good. That’s good, sis. Need help with the furniture?” I said no, I had it handled.

He thought I meant the furniture. I know he did. I didn’t correct him.

I have prayed on that more than once, and I still think it was honest. I told him I was taking what was mine, and the house was mine.

Pam was the one who called me the next week, and I almost told her.

She said, “Cheryl, I hope you’re not hating us.” Her voice was thin. I said I didn’t hate anybody, and that was the truth.

I found out later why her voice was thin. She got her layoff notice from the distribution center the week Daddy died, and her last day was in May. Lonnie had been behind on the Farm Credit note since spring.

And Lonnie had already told a man from the plant, a young fellow named Jeff with a wife and a baby, that he could rent the trailer starting in October.

Lonnie had taken six hundred fifty dollars from Jeff as a deposit. He needed the money that bad.

He’d been counting on the rent from that trailer to keep the forty acres, and he’d never once thought of the house as anything but part of the farm.

I didn’t know any of that in September. I’m not sure it would have changed what I did. But I’m glad I know it now.