The Welcome Home at the Elevator

The hall

We sat on the tailgate of Cole’s blue Ford, the three of us, for a long time after that. Sheila went to find Maddie. The band had started playing again, something old and slow.

The line at the roasters had settled into a crowd of people standing in clumps with plates, and the sun was going the color of weak tea over the top of the silos, and nobody seemed in a hurry.

Calvin ate the sloppy joe in four bites. He ate the potato salad. He ate half the roll and held the other half in his hand.

“Dad left you the tools because you needed them,” he said, at last. I waited. “I figured that out about a year ago. You used them. I would’ve let them rust.”

“Calvin, I’d have given you half.” “I know you would’ve. That was the problem.” He turned the roll over.

“It was easier when you were the one who got it all. Then I was never the one who got nothing, and was fine with it.”

“You weren’t fine with it.” “No.” “Dad shouldn’t have written it like that.” “No.” He almost smiled. “He should have said it to my face. He never said anything to anybody’s face.”

“I know.” Cole sat beside us with his legs hanging off the tailgate, the post flag across his lap. He had been quiet the whole time. Now he looked at Calvin.

“Uncle Calvin, I’d like to ask you something.” “Go ahead.” “Is the hall still open?” Calvin looked up. “I mean for later. I’m going to get married someday.

I don’t know when. Maybe in a couple of years.” He grinned, just a little. “Dad says you’ve got the best floor in the county.”

My brother stared at him. Then he put the roll down on the tailgate and wiped his hands, slowly, on his canvas coat. “The hall is open,” he said. “Next time. Any time you want it. Free. I’ll set the chairs myself.”

“You don’t have to do it for free.” “Yes, I do.” Cole nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Then I’d like to book it now.”

Afterward

People do not keep score the way I thought they would. They shook his hand. A woman from the church patted his arm.

Stuart Mercer, the Post commander, came across the lot with his Post jacket zipped to the chin, and the two of them stood by the roasters for ten minutes saying quiet things I could not hear.

Vern Tolliver beckoned Calvin over with two fingers. My brother bent down. The old man said something short and gripped his sleeve. I never learned what it was, and Calvin has never told me.