Four months I’d waited for that sentence.
Some nights, I’d planned exactly what I’d say back. Most of it wasn’t very Christian.
But standing there, what I saw was a man in his fifties holding his cap in both hands in front of his little brother.
And I didn’t have a single one of those speeches left in me.
“Saturday,” I said. “I work till noon.”
He let his breath out.
“I’ll pay you. Whatever you say.”
“You’ll pay the co-op for the spray and the nitrogen. That’ll be enough of a bill.”
I hung the grease gun back on its nail.
“And Phil. I’ll look at it. I’m not saying anything more than that yet.”
“That’s fair.”
“Why Kansas?”
He turned the cap around once in his hands.
“Because they didn’t know me,” he said. “I couldn’t ask you. And everybody else around here would’ve known I hadn’t asked you.”
