The Nine Names on the Hay Wagon

What Ardell said

Ardell switched on the microphone. He cleared his throat. His voice came out thin through Vernon’s speaker, and then steadier.

“Folks,” he said, “I need to tell you what I billed Mom’s estate.”

The crowd had gone quiet again, a different quiet.

“I’m the executor. I’m Edith’s son, Ardell. Most of you know me, or knew me when I was a kid out here.” He swallowed. “I sent my sister an accounting last month. In it, I billed the estate twenty-three thousand dollars for clean-out and labor.”

Somebody out by the tables said, “Huh,” not loud.

“I did the paperwork,” Ardell said. “I did the lawyer, and the bank, and the Social Security, and the phone calls. That part was real. My wife will tell you, it was a lot of phone calls.”

He looked out over the yard, and for the first time I think he actually saw it. The trucks along the fence. The empty folding tables. The grove, clean all the way back to the creek.

“But I didn’t clean out this house,” he said. “I came out twice. Twice. My sister was here every Saturday. And so were these nine people she just named. I wrote it down like it was all one job. It wasn’t. It was their job. I just signed it.”

He took a breath.

“Mr. Haskins charged the estate forty-two hundred dollars for the legal side. I’m going to bill the same amount for my side, because I figure what I did was about what he did. The rest of it comes back to the estate. Angie, I’ll have the new accounting to you Monday.”

Then he looked out at the crowd again. “And I’m sorry,” he said, “to the nine of you. I should have been carrying boxes. I should have said your names myself.”

He handed the microphone back up to Vernon. He did not look at me. He picked up his clipboard and walked out toward the machinery, by himself.

Nobody clapped for that. It was not that kind of thing. But I watched Dale Kessler walk over and stand next to him by the tractor, and say something I could not hear, and put a hand on his shoulder once.

The machinery

Vernon sold the machinery. Pete stood by Dad’s tractor, and when Vernon called for it, Pete turned the key and it started on the first try, and a young farmer from over by Benson bought it for more than it was worth.

I sat on the edge of the hay wagon with my feet hanging off. I was too shaky to stand. Megan came and sat next to me, and leaned her head on my shoulder like she has not done since she was ten.

“You didn’t say anything mean,” she said.

“No.”

“He said it himself.”

“He did,” I said. “That was his to say. Not mine.”

She was quiet. Then she said, “Grandma would have liked that he said sorry.”

“Grandma would have made him say it on Easter, in front of everybody, and then fed him pie,” I said, and Megan laughed, and so did I.