The Shoes Laced On at the Bench

Thaddeus

I couldn’t let my brother hear about it from somebody else. That wouldn’t have been fair to him. Thaddeus is a good man. He’s quiet, like Dad, and he works harder than anybody I know.

I texted him at six: Call me when you’re out of the field. Not an emergency. About Dad.

He called at a quarter after nine that night. I could hear the diesel idling and the heater fan running. He was sitting in his truck at the elevator, waiting in line to dump his last load.

I told him all of it. The slippers, the doctor, the pink slip, the boots. I read him the slip, line by line, the way I’d read it to Mr. Feldkamp.

He didn’t say anything for so long that I thought the call had dropped.

“Thad?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m not calling to fight.”

“I know you’re not.” He let out a long breath. “She’s been short with me since September. Says she’s tired of that clinic. Says nobody thanks her. I told her it was just till harvest was done and then I’d take some of the mornings.”

“I thank her,” I said. “I’ve thanked her every week.”

“I know you have. I don’t think it’s thanks she wanted.”

That was the closest he came to explaining his wife, and I didn’t push him. A man shouldn’t have to stand in a grain line at night and defend his marriage to his sister.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m taking Dad to Feldkamp’s at nine. I’m buying the shoes again. He needs them now, not after we all get done arguing.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“You will not.”

“Phil.”

“Thad, it’s not your money that’s the problem.”

Another long quiet. Somewhere behind him a truck horn tapped twice, somebody telling him the line was moving.

“Let her pick him up at the store,” he said. “Tomorrow. She’s got the clinic at ten-thirty with him anyway. Tell her to get him at Feldkamp’s.”

“You want her to walk in there?”

“I want her to see him,” my brother said. “I don’t want you to say anything to her. I don’t want anybody to say anything. I just want her to see him.”

I understood him then. Thaddeus has never in his life won an argument with words. But he knows what it does to a person to look at a thing straight on.

“All right,” I said.

“I’ll be in at noon,” he said. “I’ll tell the boss I need an hour. He’ll understand.”