The Night Our Whole Road Carved Pumpkins

Somebody was walking up it from the road. Not driving. Walking. Alone, in the near dark, with his hands at his sides and something hanging from one of them.

It was Warner.

He had walked the two miles. I found out later he had left the four-wheeler in the garage and the truck keys on the counter, and just started walking, because he said if he drove he would turn around.

He stopped at the edge of the field. Right at the first rut. The one he had made on that very first loop, nearest the lane.

He stood there and looked at all of us on the hay bales, and at the pumpkins, and at the field behind us.

Nobody said anything. Forty people and not a word. Even the little kids got quiet.

He had a plastic bag from the hardware store in Bremen. I could see it now. A bag of tea lights. The same brand Mom always bought.

Sylvia put down her pumpkin and stood up.

Before I could move, she walked straight across the grass to him. Straight across, past all the bales and all the neighbors, in her green hoodie with her braids bouncing.

Warner watched her come. I could see his hands shaking. He held the bag out toward her a little, like he did not know what else to do with it.

“I didn’t know if anybody would think of them,” he said. His voice was rough. “Your grandma always brought the candles.”

Sylvia looked at the bag. Then she looked up at him.

“I know,” she said. “She told me you used to carry them for her.”

That was when Warner broke.

I had not seen my brother cry since our mother’s funeral. I am not sure I had seen him cry before that since we were children. He went down on one knee, right there in the rut, and put his hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was doing. I’m so sorry.”

Sylvia did not say it was okay. I was proud of her for that, later, when I thought about it. She did not say it was okay because it was not okay, and she knew it.

But she put her hand on his shoulder.

“You can help light them,” she said. “Jacob’s got the biggest one.”

Warner looked past her to where Jacob was sitting on the hay bale with the big pumpkin half carved. Jacob was staring at his father like he had never seen him before.

Warner got up. He wiped his face on his sleeve. He walked over and sat down on the bale beside his son.

He did not say anything to Jacob for a long time. Then he picked up the spoon Jacob had set down and started scooping out the inside of the pumpkin with him.

After a while, I heard him say, “Your cousin’s lamb was better than yours, bud. Fair and square. I should have told you that in April.”

Jacob nodded without looking up. “I know, Dad.”

“I should have shook her hand.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to make it right.”

Jacob did look up at that. “How?”

Warner looked out over the ruined patch for a long time. “I’ll figure it out,” he said. “But I’m going to.”