The Farmer's Son

Chapter 2 The House that Walker Built

Alan had heard the engine about the same time as the dog, but was much slower in following, not being blessed with four-legged speed. He heard the whistle and came around the corner of the wraparound porch just in time to see a figure bend down to put Bear back on the ground. When the figure stood, the bill of a faded brown cowboy hat lifted, revealing a clean-shaven face, lean and angular, with a fading tan, a long straight nose, and two of the bluest eyes Alan had ever seen. Visible under the hat was a fringe of black hair around the ears and over the collar of the denim jacket.

"Hi," Ray said, extending an open palm. "Ray."

The other young man moved forward a step, standing just an inch or two shorter than Ray, and took the hand. "I'm Alan," he said, the wide mouth tilting into a crooked grin.

"I'm your new farm...helper?" Ray frowned. "That doesn't sound right."

"Farm hand I think is what you're looking for," Alan corrected. "A cowboy should know that."

"I should have known that," Ray said, with a sheepish smile, showing slight dimples in both cheeks. "It's been a while since I've been on a farm."

"Yeah? What was the last one?" Alan asked, letting go of his hand.

"Dairy," Ray said. "But I didn't much like watching my dinner in the eye." Alan laughed, but Ray noticed his gaze flick to Ray's hat. "I hope this won't be problem," Ray said, touching the brim of his hat with a finger. "Folks in town seemed put off by it."

"They got bad memories, that's all," Alan said, smiling. "But we'll take care of you if you take care of us. Ain't that right, Pa?" he added, directing it back towards Noah, who was offloading some supplies from the truck.

"That's right," Noah called, giving the distinct impression he hadn't heard a word his son said. "Don't just stand there looking pretty, boys," he added. "Give me a hand."

"At least let him see his room before you put him to work, Pa," Alan said.

"I don't mind," Ray said. "I don't have much to unpack."

"Ma would turn in her grave if she could see how you were treating a guest," Alan said.

"He ain't no guest," Noah called, walking with an armload of wood towards the backyard. "He's the help, like you."

Alan kicked his foot towards his laughing father, sending a spray of dirt towards the man. "No respect," Alan called. Turning back towards Ray, he said, "I don't care what he says, you're not going to work before you see where you're eating and sleeping. Come on."

With a motioning gesture, he turned towards the house, climbing the porch steps and passing through the screen door into the big house with Bear on his heels, tail wagging with such speed it left afterimages. Ray picked up his bag from the ground and followed.

Inside the house was chilly, but bright, surrounded on all sides by windows. Under the windows, dark wood paneling ran all the way around, from the entryway to the big living room on the left, dominated by a large stone fireplace; under an arch to the right, a large dining room, with a weathered, knotted natural wood table. Hugging the outer dining room wall, a staircase with a landing, leading to the second floor. Beyond the staircase, a doorway led to the kitchen, done in traditional farmhouse style, with a cast iron stove and copper pots and pans, and appliances tucked under the cupboards.

Throughout the house Ray could see the same signs of disrepair and neglect, in the peeling paint and the layer of dust over everything. But underneath he saw glimpses of a house once loved, and lovingly upkept: the large dining room table, smoothed with use, the roughhewn wood furniture covered with handsewn slips, embroidered cushions with bows, crocheted doilies and chairbacks. Framed pictures overflowed from the mantle to tabletops and armoires, scattered with ceramic figurines of fishes and birds. The dark wood was matte, but thick with past waxes, and the closed space had the scent of cedar and lingering perfume.