The Lawn Chairs Facing the Road

The Call

Doug answered on the second ring, and I could hear a skid steer running behind him.

“Loretta,” he said. “How’s Arlen?”

“Resting. Doug, where is the camper?”

The skid steer idled down. I heard a door shut, and I understood that he had walked somewhere to be alone with the question.

“I was going to tell you tonight,” he said. “I took care of it. I sold it, Tuesday. I had a good offer. Twenty-four thousand dollars, Loretta. That’s cash.”

I sat down on the tailgate of the truck.

“I had the power of attorney,” he said. “Arlen signed it, remember? For the bills.” His voice got smoother, like a man who had practiced something in the truck. “But you two are too old to be dragging that thing down the road anyway. Arlen’s heart can’t take it.”

“You sold our camper.”

“The money is better in the kids’ college fund than sitting out there by the barn. Mason’s sixteen. Ava’s twelve. Somebody in this family has to think about the future, Loretta.”

I looked at the green chairs. A barn swallow was sitting on the arm of mine.

I will tell you what I said, because I have thought about it every day since. I said, “All right.”

“All right?” He sounded almost disappointed.

“I have to get back to Arlen. Thank you for taking care of the place.”

I hung up, and I sat on that tailgate a good while with the phone in my lap, and a thought came as clear as a bell in a quiet church. It said, do not do one thing today.