The Gate In The North Fence Line

The Things Nobody Said

He did not answer that text. I did not expect him to.

August turned into September. It stayed dry. I swathed what was left of the meadow, which made about half of what it should have. In late September I put up a few thin bales of slough grass off the low end of the place, and it helped.

I sold six cows I could not afford to feed, older ones, and kept my heifers. Every rancher on our road did the same thing that fall. The sale barn in Broken Bow ran late every Saturday, and the parking lot was full of trailers.

I saw Bart there once, in October. He was in the bleachers with Thea beside him, and he had his arms folded and was watching black cows come through the ring. I recognized the yellow tags.

He saw me. He nodded. I nodded back. Thea waved, and I waved at her, and that was all.

Aunt Marcella called me in early November. She is seventy-six and does not believe in small talk.

“I heard about the fence,” she said.

“From who?”

“From Clem’s wife, at quilting.” There was a pause. “Is it true about the cuts?”

I stood out on my porch with the phone and looked at the north line a mile off, the new wire catching the low sun.

“It’s true,” I said.

She did not say anything for a long time. When she did, her voice was smaller than I had ever heard it.

“His dad would have died,” she said. “His dad would have just died.”

“Don’t say anything to him,” I said. “Please.”

“Why not?”

“Because he has to be the one who says it,” I said. “Not you. Not me.”

She was quiet again. Then she said, “You sound like your dad,” and hung up, and I stood there on the porch steps a while longer, holding the phone.