The College Fund at the Pasture Fence

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was at the home place, like always. Mom cooked the turkey and Noreen did the sides, and I brought three pies. One of them was cherry.

I almost did not bring it. Neil talked me into it. “It’s your pie,” he said. “Don’t let one afternoon take your pie away.”

Brody came with us. It was the first holiday in two years he had not spent in a brand-new placement, Karen told us.

He wore a collared shirt Mom had bought him and kept checking to make sure it was tucked in.

Everybody was kind to him. Noreen made him a plate first. Mom sat him next to her. Hunter had saved him the seat across the table and spent half the meal talking baseball with him.

After dinner, the men went out to look at the cattle, the way they always did. The boys went out to the pasture with two gloves and a ball.

I went out to the fence to get some air, the same stretch of fence where the picnic table had stood in July.

It was cold and gray, and the pasture had gone brown. I could see Hunter and Brody out in the middle of it, throwing. Hunter was backing up a step every few throws to make Brody throw farther.

Jeff came and leaned on the fence beside me. He had his gray cap on and a canvas coat. For a while neither of us said anything. We just watched the boys.

“He’s got a good arm,” Jeff said finally.

“Hunter’s been working with him,” I said.

“I know. He talks about it.” Jeff was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “Liz. I owe you an apology. A real one. Not a text.”

I did not say anything. I let him.

“I’m sorry for the cookout,” he said. “I’m sorry for every joke. I’m sorry for six years of ‘maybe next year.’ I’m sorry I never once asked how you were doing. I’m sorry I let my boy think it was funny.”

He was not looking at me. He was looking at the boys. His voice was steady, but his hands were holding the top board of the fence tight.

“I didn’t know how to talk about it,” he said. “That’s not an excuse. It’s just the truth. Every time I saw you, I thought about those babies, and I didn’t know what to do with it. So I made it funny so I didn’t have to feel it.”

“I know, Jeff,” I said. “I figured that out at the fence in October.”

“Noreen and I talked,” he said. “We want to put into the boy’s account. Brody’s. Twenty-five a week. Same as you did, when you started.” He finally looked at me. “If that’s all right. It’s your account. You say.”

I looked out at the pasture. Brody had just thrown one that made Hunter jump, and Hunter was laughing and shaking out his glove hand like it stung.

“That’s all right,” I said. “That’s more than all right.”

Jeff nodded. He did not make a joke. I could tell he wanted to. I could see it working in him, the old habit. He did not do it.

Instead he said, “Thanks for my boy’s college, Liz. All those years. Thank you. I should have said that thirteen years ago.”

I put my hand over his on the fence board. We stood there until Mom called out that the pie was coming.