The Crew We Paid at the Bin Trailer

The Shop

Abe drove to Spencer’s shop that same afternoon. I went with him and stayed in the truck with the window down, because this was between cousins, and because I did not trust my own mouth.

The shop was a big metal building at the head of Spencer’s 80 acres, with three tractors parked in a row and a bin pile stacked taller than a man. Spencer was inside at his desk with the door open.

I could hear them. Abe did not raise his voice. He never does. He set the green book on the desk and asked his cousin to look at one page. Just one.

Spencer did not look at it. He told Abe that the bank had called his operating line in September.

That was the first I had heard of it. He said he had loans on new trellis and a packing bill he could not cover.

“So you took it out of the men,” Abe said.

“I took it out of where it would hold,” Spencer said. “Those men aren’t going to fight me, Abe. Where are they going to go? Every crew in the valley is set for the year.”

I remember that sentence word for word, because it was the coldest thing I had ever heard a Wenzel say.

He was not angry. He was just sure. He had looked at those men and decided they could not afford to stand up.

Abe stood there a while. Then he picked up his book and put it back in his shirt pocket.

“You can still make it right,” he said. “Any time. You know where the trailer is.”

He walked out to the truck and got in and did not start it for a minute. Then he said, “Let’s go home, Cal.”

Our Six Acres

Our place sits right next to Spencer’s. It used to be one orchard, all of it, when Abe’s grandfather had it.

When the old man passed, the land was split, and Spencer’s father got the big piece. Abe’s father got six acres and the old house.

Six acres of Gala on a bench up against the hill. It is not much. It does not make a living.

It makes the property taxes, and new tires, and in a good year it puts a little in the savings.

Our late Gala block always came on last. It sits high and cold up against the hill, and it colors last in the valley.

Abe and I usually picked it ourselves in the evenings after his crew finished Spencer’s fruit, a bin or two at a time.

That year the trees were heavy. I had walked the rows the Sunday before with Jory and counted on my fingers.

We had already picked the early blocks, and the high late block still held close to 40 bins. That was the last of our fall, and the part that paid the taxes.

I drive a school bus for the district. Abe runs a crew. We had about $2,100 in savings that October.

I knew that number because I had looked at it the week before, wondering about Jory’s braces.

$2,100 was not $8,400. But 40 bins of apples on the trees might be.