He went looking for somebody to plant our father’s ground. And he looked right past me. All the way to Kansas.
I took my hand off the blinker.
I drove on to the Rasmussen place and unloaded.
I’m not proud of that. I’m telling it because it’s what I did.
That night I didn’t eat supper.
Theresa found me out in the feed truck, sitting in the dark with the driver’s door open.
“They put it in wet,” I said.
“Can it be fixed?”
“Some. Not by them.”
She stepped up on the running board and put her arm around my neck. We stayed like that a long time, with the yard light buzzing over us.
“He would hate this,” she said quietly. “Your dad. Not the corn. You two.”
“He’s the one that did it, Theresa.”
“I know he is. I still think he’d hate it.”
