The Last Bed of the Harvest

The question

On Saturday, Adam had to work. The feed mill does not close for harvest season, and they had a load of corn coming in. He kissed me at the door and said, “Whatever happens, you call me.”

I put Eli in the car with his rubber boots and his blue denim jacket, the one with the light collar. He wanted to bring the woven basket that sits on our kitchen counter for apples. I asked him why, and he said, “For berries, in case Grandpa lets me keep some.”

We drove up to Warrens. Grandpa was at the table, the radio on, a cup of coffee in front of him. He was wearing a red and black plaid flannel shirt, the same kind he has worn every fall that I can remember.

I set the box on the table in front of him and took the lid off.

He looked down at the waders for a long time. He did not touch them. He looked at them the way a man looks at a letter he is afraid to open.

“Molly,” he said. “What did you do.”

“They finish bed 9 this afternoon,” I said. “It’s the last bed of the year. I’m not asking Keith for anything, Grandpa. It’s his marsh and his rule, and I’m not going to fight him over it.”

“Then what are these for?”

“I’m asking you,” I said. “Not Keith, not the insurance, not anybody else. Do you want one more bed?”

He was quiet so long that Eli started to fidget. The farm report finished and the radio went to polka music. Grandpa reached out and ran his thumb down one of the suspenders, slow, like he was checking a fence wire.

“Does Keith know?”

“No. This isn’t Keith’s question, Grandpa. It’s yours.”

He looked at Eli, then at me. Then he looked at the hook by the back door where his old waders used to hang. Something moved in his face that I had not seen in a month.

“If I go in that water,” he said slowly, “Keith will have to do something about it. In front of his crew. You understand that.”

“I understand.”

“And you understand I might slip. I’m 83. I’m not a fool about it.”

“I know, Grandpa. That’s why it’s yours to decide and not mine.”

He got up from the table, slow, one hand on the back of the chair.

He went to the closet and came back with his faded tan seed cap, the one from the co-op that has been washed so many times the logo is a ghost.

“I’m not asking to be young, Molly,” he said, and he put the cap on. “I’d just like to finish one.”