“Your pa all right?”
“Of course,” he said, then wished he hadn’t. After all, Pa’s continued health wasn’t a given; Grady’s own pa and brother had died of a fever out there. Dean looked away.
“You want me to leave you be?” Grady asked.
Dean managed a smile. “Nah, let’s walk to the orchard. I think this might finally be the year we get apples.”
“You say that every year.”
“Well, one of these years I’m bound to be right.”
The apple trees always calmed him. He’d helped Pa plant them almost nine years ago, had cared for them faithfully through dry years and storms, and had been keeping a careful eye on them this year after their blossoms fell. He tried not to get his hopes up, but it surely looked like apples were developing to him.
Grady agreed. They stood in the little orchard and talked apples and corn and weather. No mention of California, no Pa, nothing unsettling. The baby drowsed on Grady’s shoulder, reaffirming that the farm was the most peaceful place on earth.
After Grady went home, Dean stayed on the edge of the fields, watching as Leeds left. He knew it was impolite not to say good-bye, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. At least Leeds wasn’t staying the night, though likely Ma had offered. Dean couldn’t shake the memory of her smile at supper. A smile shouldn’t be so unnerving, but it was.
When he finally went in, Ma had gone to bed, though she’d left the lamp burning for him. He could see the open letter from Pa on the table, but he left it be. Pa’s letters were always the same—I miss you. I get along all right. No luck yet, but things will change soon. Sometimes he’d address a portion specifically to Dean, but these too were maddeningly predictable—How’s the cow? You might plant some parsnips. Take care of your ma. Dean blew out the lamp and went to bed.
The next morning, Ma waved the letter in his face at breakfast. “Isn’t it grand?”
“What?” he grunted.
“You didn’t read it?”
He shook his head, eyes on his cornmeal mush.
“He sent for us.”
It took every ounce of his control not to let his head snap up, not to ask all the questions that raced through his mind, violent as a twister. This was what he’d dreamed about when he was ten, but he wasn’t ten anymore.
I enjoyed this story very much. I relate to it in a variety of ways, several of which are, tangential but my liking of it is real. I was raised in Nebraska, though on a farm. I’ve had, indeed I have, decisions pushed on me by circumstance, that seem to have no “proper” choice: some gain, some loss with any decision. I’ve written a story, much, much different, with the same title, which is what got me to read yours. Turned out that, after reading yours, I’ve realized that the two stories have much in common, in spite of their differences. Still, the core of my response to your story is, well done. It moved me.