The Tractor No Hand Went Up For

The Amish men along the fence had their hands folded in front of them, the cards tucked away out of sight. Walt stood down front with his arms crossed and his card balled up in one fist.

He stared at that auctioneer like he was daring the man to find a single bid in the whole field. Nobody coughed.

Nobody shuffled. A dog barked somewhere out by the trucks and that was the only sound.

The auctioneer tried one last time, because that is the job. He said, somebody give me five hundred dollars and haul home a tractor worth seven. Five hundred. Anybody. Half of what she is worth, folks.

A young dairy farmer standing near me looked down at his own card. Then he slid it into his back pocket, out of sight, like he did not quite trust his own arm to behave. An old man beside him gave a small nod.

The auctioneer stood up there on his flatbed in the bright October sun. Three hundred people who had driven in that morning to buy things, and not one of them in this wide world would buy this one thing. He knew exactly why. Everybody standing in that field knew why.

You could feel it move through the crowd, that quiet agreement, like a current in still water that nobody had to say out loud.

He let it hang one second longer. Then he brought the microphone down against his chest.

And he said, not into the speakers but loud enough to carry, no sale on lot 40. We are passing her by.

He said, lot 41, folks, this nice grain auger here, who will give me. And the chant started right back up.

The crowd breathed out all at once and moved on down the row after him, following the sound.

And I stood there alone in the gravel beside my husband’s Farmall. And I could not see a thing for the crying, and I did not try to stop it, and not one of those men turned to stare.