The Steers My Uncle Took Credit For

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The rest of the afternoon was work, which I was grateful for. Hoyt’s men backed their stock trailer up to the pen gate, and I helped them load my six steers, one at a time, the same way I had unloaded them.

The kids lined the fence to watch. Some of the little ones looked worried. Mabry stood with her hands wrapped around the top pipe and watched the Thanksgiving steer walk up the ramp.

I went and stood next to her. I didn’t say anything. I just put my hand next to hers on the pipe.

“He did a good job,” she said, after a while. “Didn’t he.”

“He did a real good job,” I said. “So did you.”

She nodded. She didn’t cry. Farm kids and pantry kids both know some things early.

She waved once as the trailer pulled out, and then she ran off to help the other kids carry the sheet to the van.

Henny found me while I was sweeping out my own trailer. She leaned on the fender and watched me work for a minute before she said anything.

“I didn’t put them up to it,” she said. “Not the sheet. They did that on their own. All I did was tell them when to come out.”

“You saw him,” I said. “When he told the reporter.”

“I saw him.” She was quiet. “Brynn, I almost said something. I had it right on my tongue. Then I looked at you and you shook your head, and I thought, well. Maybe there’s a better way than me.”

“There was,” I said. “It was ten years old and had red braids.”

Henny laughed, and then she wiped her eyes with the back of her glove, and then she hugged me, hard, the way church women hug when they mean it.

The Week After

Royce didn’t call me that night, or the next day. I didn’t call him either. I thought about it.

I sat at my kitchen table on Wednesday evening with the phone in my hand and put it down three times.

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving I fed my cows before daylight, took a vacation day off my route, and went to Henny’s church to help hand out the boxes.

Each one had a roast, five pounds of ground beef and a package of steaks, along with the turkey breast and canned goods.

I stood at the table by the door handing boxes to people I knew from my mail route. The man who keeps his mailbox wired to a fence post.

The young mother with the twins. The old widower who always leaves me a cold drink on hot days.

None of them knew which steers were mine. None of them needed to. That was the point, and it always had been.

Royce was there, too. He was at the far end of the hall, carrying boxes out to cars for the older folks, which I’ll grant him.

He did it all morning and didn’t stop. We looked at each other across the room once and both looked away.