The Pantry Rows on Our Farm

Rod stood there a minute more. Then he turned and walked back to his truck. He did not say goodbye. He got in, and he sat for a long time, and then he drove away slowly, past the end of the line.

Mom watched him go. She did not say anything for a while. Then she reached over and put her hand on my arm.

“He’ll come,” she said. “Give him a day.”

The little girl on Isom’s hip waved at Mom on her way down the steps, the green bean still in her fist. Mom waved back.

We loaded the empty baskets back into the pickup at noon. Bess carried Mom’s lawn chair to the truck herself and would not let anybody help her. On the drive home Mom fell asleep against the window with the notebook in her lap.

Sunday Rod did not call. It was the first Sunday all year he had not called. Mom sat by her phone all afternoon, Hester said later, pretending to read.

Monday morning was sunny and still. The dew was heavy on the field, and by seven-thirty the sun was up over the beans and the whole two acres was shining green and gold.

I had Mom in her chair at the end of the rows by a quarter till eight.

She had worn the lavender blouse again. I teased her about it, and she said it was her lucky blouse now, and I was not to argue with a woman of her years.

I was carrying a bushel basket of tomatoes out to the pickup when I heard his truck turn in at the end of our lane.

I did not stop walking. I set the basket in the bed with the others and turned around.

Erv came out of the shed wiping his hands on a rag. The twins were down in the sweet corn and did not hear anything at all.

Rod parked by the machine shed and got out. He had his work boots on, and his co-op shirt, and he looked like he had not slept.

He stood by his truck looking at the two acres for a long time, the way Erv had looked at that ground in March.

Then he walked down the edge of the rows to where Mom was sitting.

She did not get up. She tipped her straw hat back and looked at him.

“You didn’t call yesterday,” she said.

“No, ma’am.” He stood in front of her chair with his hands at his sides. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could have said hello.”

He almost laughed. Then he did not. He looked at the ground, and I saw his jaw working, the way Dad’s used to.

“I was scared, Mom,” he said. “I got to you that afternoon in October and you were so cold. You didn’t know me for a minute. I thought you were dying in the dirt out there. I thought I’d find you that way again.”

“I know you did, honey.”

“So I sold it. I thought if it was gone, you’d stop. I didn’t ask you because I knew what you’d say.” He swallowed. “And I sold it out from under Isom and his little girl and everybody in that line, and I didn’t even know they were there. I didn’t think about one of them.”