The Wheat Crop Held at the Elevator

“Well,” Sid said, when it stopped. “I expect that’s his answer.”

Wayne drove to the co-op Monday morning at seven. I know because I was in the lot, in the cab of my truck, drinking Carla’s coffee, with Cade on the seat beside me and the thermos between us.

We had decided Cade would come. I wanted him to see me do this the right way, which is to say politely, and in the open.

Wayne got out of his pickup and walked straight at the truck. He had his reading glasses on his head and a file folder in his hand.

“You think you’re clever,” he said. “Morning, Wayne.” “That’s my grain. I could have the sheriff out here.” “For what?” I said. “Sid’s holding it, not me. I haven’t touched a bushel.”

“This is theft.” “Wayne.” I kept my hands on the wheel. “I’ll sign the slip this minute. I’ll sign it with Sid standing here and Lorna as the witness.

Write me a check for eighteen thousand dollars. That’s the whole thing. Nobody has to say another word.”

“You’re charging me? Your own flesh and blood?” Behind me a pickup pulled into the lot and an older man in a feed cap got out.

Then another. The co-op opens at seven, and it was the first week of July, and half the county was bringing in their own wheat.

“You said family doesn’t charge family,” I said. “I thought you meant it. So did my son. Here’s what I’d like to say: I’m not charging you, Wayne. I’m collecting. My crew worked.”

He stared at me. He breathed through his nose. Then he looked past me at Cade, who was staring straight ahead at the dashboard, his ears bright red, not looking at either of us.

“That boy’s been listening to you,” Wayne said. “He’s been working, Wayne. Three days, nights, on a cart, in the dust. You patted his head.”

Wayne started to say something and shut his mouth. A man at the pump island turned to look.

Then a woman in a green truck who ran the café two blocks over, and two of Leland’s drivers, who had come in for a fuel receipt. Nobody said a word. Somebody’s chair scraped, and that was all.

“I’ll be back,” Wayne said. He was back Tuesday. And Wednesday. He sat in the lot with the engine running and did not get out.

On Tuesday afternoon he drove to the house of my mother, who is eighty, and sat in her kitchen for an hour. I know because she called me at supper.

“He says you’ve been unfair to him,” Mom said. “What did you say?” “I asked him if he had paid you.” “Mom.”

“I said, Wayne, Emil would have paid you in the middle of the night out of a drawer. That’s the kind of man he was.

If you can’t pay Emil’s boy, you don’t have the right to say Emil’s name in my house.” She breathed. “Then I gave him a piece of pie. I’m not a monster.”

I laughed until I had to put the phone down. Here is the part nobody warns you about.

A stand is lonely. Even when you are right, even when the whole road is behind you, you lie awake.