The Farmhouse Down the Road

By November he could say “denki,” which is thank you in Pennsylvania Dutch. He said it to everyone. He said it to the cashier at Walmart. He said it to me when I handed him his cereal, very solemn, like a little bishop.

My end of the trade was Tuesdays and Fridays. On Tuesdays I worked a short shift and drove Mary to town in the afternoon: to the doctor for her blood pressure, to the dentist, to the Walmart in Millersburg for the things the bulk food store doesn’t carry.

Mary talked the whole way, every trip. She asked me about the hospital and I asked her about canning.

She told me which of her children had been the hardest babies. I told her about my divorce, things I hadn’t said out loud to anyone.

Once, on the way home from Charm, she said, without looking at me, “Your father drives past here.”

“He does?”

“Every few days. In the gray truck. Slow.” She folded her hands on her lap. “Eli sees him from the field. He slows down at your lane and then he goes on.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. But I watched the road after that, from the kitchen window, and she was right. Every few days. Slow. And then on.

Back in town, Dad’s left house sat empty.

I heard about it from Seth, mostly. He called me the first week of December, which he didn’t usually do, and asked how the kids were, and then asked if I’d heard what Dad was doing with the house.

“He won’t rent it,” Seth said. “I told him he could get eight-fifty for it from one of the nurses at your hospital. He won’t even put a sign out. He says it’s your house.”

“It’s not my house, Seth.”

“I know that. You know that. Try telling him.” Seth was quiet for a second. “He’s got the heat set at fifty-five so the pipes won’t freeze. He’s buying propane for a house nobody lives in.”

The propane wasn’t cheap that winter. Seth figured Dad was spending a hundred and fifty a month to heat empty rooms.

On top of that, the first half of the property taxes came due in January, the same as every year, whether the house earned a dime or not.

“And he’s got me shoveling,” Seth said. “Both walks. Every time it snows. So it doesn’t look empty, he says. So nobody gets ideas and breaks in.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was surprised to find I meant it.

“Don’t be,” Seth said. “I’ve got it coming.”

Christmas was hard. We went to Dad’s for dinner on Christmas Day like always, Seth and Jack too.

Dad had bought the kids presents, too many, the way he does when he feels bad and won’t say so. He gave Theo a toy tractor and Ivy a real cookbook.

Nobody said one word about the house. We passed the potatoes and the ham, and Dad asked about the hospital, and I asked about his knee. Jack and Theo played under the table. Seth and I did the dishes together, side by side, quiet.

When we were leaving, Dad stood in the doorway in his slippers and watched me buckle the kids in. He looked old. I had never thought of my father as old before that night.

“You warm enough out there?” he asked.

“We’re warm, Dad.”