Nine Tanks Nine Weeks and One Axe

Dad said he was there. I had no reason to doubt it.

Then the cold came down out of Canada the second week of January, the kind of cold that makes the snow squeak under your boots and turns your breath to frost on your scarf before you get from the house to the truck.

On Tuesday it was 26 below at sunup. Wednesday it was 29.

Thursday it was 31, and the wind came up out of the northwest, and the radio said not to leave the house unless you had to.

Dad did not call anyone on Wednesday. He told me later that he heard the cows on Wednesday afternoon and told himself Brandt must have come early, before he was up.

He did not want to be the old man who checks on his son.

By Thursday he could not tell himself that anymore. He went to the window and looked at the yard tank through the binoculars he keeps on the sill for watching hawks, and he saw the cows standing at the ice.

He tried Brandt’s cell twice. It went to voicemail both times. Then he called the post office.

It took me an hour and a half to chop all nine that first day.

I was in my uniform pants and my good boots, and by the last tank in the far pasture I could not feel my feet.

Dad was standing at the kitchen window when I came back to the house. He had his walker pulled right up to the sink.

He had the coffee on and a plate of crackers and cheese set out, because he did not know what else to do.

“I’m sorry, Wren,” he said.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I should have called yesterday.”

“You couldn’t have done anything yesterday either.”

He looked at me then, at my red face and my wet pant legs, and his mouth did something I had not seen it do since my mother’s funeral.

He turned back to the window before I could see the rest of it.

I sat down and ate the crackers. Then I called my brother.

He picked up on the fourth ring. There was noise behind him, a television, maybe, or a radio.

“The cows had no water, Brandt.”

“Oh, man. Wren, my truck wouldn’t start. It was thirty below. I tried twice.”

“You could have called Dad.”

“I know. I know. I’ll be out tomorrow, first thing.”

He was not out tomorrow. He was not out Saturday either. On Saturday he texted Dad that one of the boys was sick. On Sunday he did not text at all.

People have asked me since why I did not just keep after him. Call him every night. Drive to Minot and stand on his porch. Tell Dad to take the money back.

The honest answer is that I had already heard the only thing Brandt was going to say.

He was going to promise. He has always promised. He is the best promiser I have ever known.

Calling him would only have bought me one more promise, and cows can’t drink promises.

They needed water in the morning, every morning, whether my brother felt like getting out of bed or not.

And I did not want to make Dad choose. Dad loves Brandt. He loves both of us.