The Farmer's Son

Chapter 4 A Gathering of Old Men, and Judith

Ray eased the big red truck into a space in front of the hardware store, and emerged into the relatively cool day, dressed in his denim jacket and a baseball hat. With a sharp sigh of annoyance, he slammed the truck door behind him. Unlike the other times he'd come to town on a supply run, today he was alone, and he was still mad at Alan for that. Actually, he was mad at himself for rising to Alan's bait.

A few days before they had been in a patch of field left to fallow. Kneeling in the dirt with the hot sun beating down on him, sleeves rolled up his forearm, his gloved hands rooted around in the dirt until, finding what they sought, they grasped and pulled. A mass of tangled roots came up with a spray of dirt, and flick of the wrist sent it in a perfect arc though the air to land with a thunk in a wheelbarrow with a pile of others. A low whistle made him pause and turn on his heel to glance in its direction.

In another row of dirt, about ten feet behind, Alan used his thumb on the underside of the hat to push it higher on his head. "What's your count?" he asked.

"I wasn't counting," Ray said. "Was I supposed to?"

"I was," Alan said, sugar-colored eyes twinkling in the shade of the straw hat above a wide smile. "I'm sure it's high," he said, looking back to his work. "You're faster than I ever was."

Siting back on one heel, Ray rested his arm on a knee and glanced at Alan's wheelbarrow, where a sizeable pile already sat. "They look equal," he said.

"Want to bet?" Alan asked, glancing up.

Ray turned away, shaking his head. He dug into the dirt, burying his hand to the wrist, then upturned fragrant earth it as he brought up another root. He tossed it in the wheelbarrow. "What are we betting?"

A smile flashed, crooked and full of ulterior motive. "Supply run," Alan said. "Loser goes on the next one alone."

Ray paused. He glanced back at Alan. "You go into town alone all the time," he said, frowning.

"But you don't."

Ray turned away quickly. He hadn't thought anyone noticed.

Alan paused, sitting back on one heel. "They're not going to burn you at the stake, Ray," he called. "You don't have to hide—"

"I'm not hiding."

"What do you call never leaving the farm?"

"Being a good worker."

"You mean avoiding anyone who might want to be your friend."

"I'm not looking for new friends," Ray said. Just an old one, he added silently. When a little too much silence went by, he glanced behind him, where Alan worked with his head down, hat obscuring his face. "I didn't mean you," Ray said.

Alan said nothing. Two tangles of roots went arcing through the air.

"Alan," Ray called. When he was ignored, he sighed. "I'm not hiding," he said. "I'm used to being in places where others don't like the sight of me."

Sugar colored eyes looked up at that. "Where?" came the curious, almost urgent question, eyes sparkling with excitement under the brim of his hat. "Why?"

"I'll tell you," Ray said. "If you win the bet." He turned away. "And put that smile away," he added, without turning around. "I'm starting to distrust it."

Ray shook his head at the sound of a quiet, self-satisfied chuckle. Turning his head, he looked over his shoulder. Alan wore his straw hat low over his brow, but in the shadows below the rim, Ray saw an excited smile.

Ray had lost that bet by a mile. Alan had played him like a fiddle, and now he was on the supply run all on his own. Taking a deep breath and letting it out through puffed cheeks, Ray put his head down, letting the bill of the baseball cap shade his eyes, and went into the hardware store.