Rory
Rory got home at half past five, dusty to the eyebrows from the feed mill. I told him the whole thing at the kitchen table while he ate.
He did not say anything for a while. Rory is not a talker. He is the kind of man who thinks a thing through with his hands, turning his fork over.
“Gil cut the breaker on an 87-year-old man in August,” he finally said.
“Over sixty dollars.”
He set the fork down. “I’ll go talk to him.”
“Orville asked us not to,” I said. “He’s scared to death of getting put out.”
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Rory looked out our kitchen window at the little white house. Then he looked at me. “So what do we do?”
“We haul,” I said. “Every other day. Out in the open.”
He thought about that. Then he nodded. “Gil drives the section road every morning to look at his milo,” he said. “He’s going to see the truck.”
“I know it,” I said.
“Well,” Rory said, and he picked his fork back up. “Good.”
That was the whole conversation. That is how we decided things in our house. Rory went out after supper, while the sun was still up, and checked the straps on the tank frame and put a new washer on the valve, because it had been dripping. That was his way of saying he was in it with me.