The Rent Mom Wrote on a Napkin

“A dollar,” he said. “Oh, Verna. A dollar.”

Dale started next. He tried to hold it. He pressed his lips together and looked at the ceiling, but it got out of him anyway, and then he had to put both hands on the back of Kathy’s chair to stay up.

Kathy turned around and looked at him like she could not believe it.

“Dale,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Dale said, and laughed harder. “I’m sorry, honey. I told you. I told you in the car.”

That was how I found out Dale had known about the paper. He had told Kathy on the drive over not to bring it. He had told her Verna would never stand for it. She had brought it anyway, because Cheryl asked her to.

I did not laugh. I want to be clear about that. I sat there with my hands in my lap and I did not laugh at my sisters, and I have not laughed about it since, not even in the truck alone.

But I will tell you the truth. Something in my chest that had been tight for about ten minutes let go.

Kathy’s face went red, and then it crumpled, and then, God love her, she started to laugh too. She put her face in her hands and laughed and cried at the same time, the way she did when she was a little girl and fell off the swing and could not decide which one it was.

Cheryl did not laugh.

Cheryl sat with her hands still flat on the table and her eyes on the napkin, and two tears ran down her face, one on each side, and she did not wipe them.

Mom reached across and put her hand on top of Cheryl’s.

“Cheryl Ann,” she said.

Cheryl looked up.

“Why did you go to Ron Petersen before you came to me,” Mom said.

It was not loud. Mom has never been loud. But I watched it land on my sister like a load of wet hay.

“I didn’t want to ask you for money,” Cheryl said. “You’re eighty-three. You need what you’ve got. I didn’t want you to worry about Jim.”

“So you were going to take it from your brother instead.”

Cheryl closed her eyes.

“I thought it was fair,” she said. “Ron said it was fair. I thought, Marvin’s done all right. Marvin’s got the 300 and Mom’s 160 and the new planter, and Jim can’t even get under a car anymore. I thought it was only fair.”

“It is not your place to decide what’s fair with my land,” Mom said. “It’s mine. I decided. Twenty years ago I sat right here with your brother and I decided, and I decided every New Year’s since, and I wrote it down every time.”

She let go of Cheryl’s hand and pointed at me without looking.

“He’s paid the taxes on this place every year since your father died. Did Ron Petersen put that on your paper?”

Cheryl shook her head.

“It’s eighty-four hundred dollars this year. He’s plowed my lane every winter. He’s mowed this yard every week from May to October. He’s driven me to Lincoln for my eyes and to Columbus for my hip and he’s never once sent me a bill for the gas.”

“Mom,” I said. “That’s enough.”

“I’ll say when it’s enough,” Mom said. “It’s my birthday.”

Dale snorted. Jim wiped his eyes.