“I had a man out to look at it. He said the panel was throwing a fault, and he could come back in two weeks.”
“You don’t have two weeks.”
Butch told me Phil took his cap off then and ran his hand back over his head. The exact way our father did when he was whipped. Butch said it gave him a turn to see it.
“There’s a man eleven miles from here,” Butch said, “who knows which tower sticks on that machine. And what to hit it with.”
“I know there is.”
“Then what in the world are you standing here talking to me for?”
Phil put his cap back on.
“Because I got the farm and he got a truck, Butch. How am I supposed to drive into his yard and ask him for anything?”
Butch said he thought about that a minute. He said it was the first time in thirty years he thought Phil sounded like one of us.
