The Porch Full of Oak

I am Jolene. I am 44. I drive a school bus for the county, a morning route and an afternoon route, and in between I have about four hours that belong to me. I spent most of those hours that fall at Mom’s.

I found out because Arvella Stoltz called me. Arvella is 79 and lives across the road.

She has been Mom’s best friend for forty years, and she does not call anybody on a cell phone unless something is wrong.

“Jolene,” she said, “I think I did something foolish. I waved at your uncle this morning. Now your mother is home and she is just sitting at the kitchen table looking out at the wall.”

I drove out with my bus keys still on the lanyard around my neck. That is how I ended up standing at the bottom of those steps, looking at the bare siding, with the October wind going right through my jacket.

That afternoon, after my route, I drove into town. I did not go to Gerald’s house.

I want to be honest about that. I was afraid of what I would say to him, and I did not trust myself.

I stopped at the gas station on the highway for coffee, because my hands needed something to do.

The woman at the register, Vonda, had gone to school with me. She knew about Dad. She asked how Mom was holding up.

Then she said something that made my coffee go cold. “Your uncle was through here this morning with a trailer of oak,” she said. “He sold two loads right out of the lot. Said your mom would be moving to town anyway.”

I did not say anything. I paid for the coffee and sat in my car in the lot for a long time.

I watched the trucks go by on the highway and I thought about my father’s hands.

By Saturday, Gerald had sold all 12 cords. Seasoned oak goes for about $250 a cord around us, so that came to $3,000, give or take.

I know because one of the men who bought a load told Wade the price.

Now, I want to tell you about Gerald too, because he is not a monster, and I did not think of him as one even then.

He is Dad’s younger brother, 70 years old. He drove truck for most of his life and then had his own small outfit, three trucks, for about fifteen years.

That spring the business folded. Diesel prices, a contract he lost, a driver who quit and took two customers with him. Gerald sold the trucks at the sale barn auction for less than he owed on them.

We found out later that he owed about $3,000 on his own propane bill, and the propane company had told him they would not fill his tank again until he paid. He was looking at a cold house of his own.

He told himself Mom would sell the farm and move into an apartment in town. He told himself the wood was going to waste on that porch.

I think he told himself so many times that he started to believe it.

I understood all of that. I still do. But it was not his wood, and it was not his decision, and he did it while she was at church. There is no reason in the world that makes that right.