Dilapidated Home

 

Dilapidated Home
by Dave Wright

[Fall 1975]

A bold-faced NO TRESPASSING sign hung from an aluminum gate that barricaded the driveway to the farmstead. A tangled mass of barbed wire fell away from each side of the gate. To the right, crooked fence posts wandered into an overgrown wood. Prickly ash, buckthorn and ironwood poked through an assortment of rusting machinery—a dismantled manure spreader with two flat tires, a rusting combine buried to its axel, and a faded Minneapolis Moline tractor with a torn seat. To the left of the gate, the jagged fence line fell into a road ditch, its woven wire obscured by thistle and cocklebur.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the lot from the barn, once regal red—now a weathered grey skeleton. A gust of wind caught the lower half of a barn door. Its single hinge screeched as it closed halfway. A roofless silo, overgrown with Virginia creeper stood vacant next to the barn. The porous slats of a corn crib rose above the far side of the cow yard, now the lonely home to a nest of rats.

The rutted driveway led to a clapboard farmhouse mottled with chipped white paint. Its sagging roof and leaning porch waited restlessly for a windstorm to complete its transformation to debris.

Russell Links leaned on the aluminum gate at the driveway. His stomach, once as hard and flat as a tabletop, drooped over his belt buckle and pushed against the no trespassing sign. His creased blue jeans clung to his long thin legs. He placed a recently shined cowboy boot on the lowest plank of the gate and stared at the house.

“Joe!” he hollered waving a letter in his hand. “I just want to talk to you. We were best friends in high school, for god sake.” 

A tattered curtain flapped from an upstairs window. The barrel of a shotgun lifted the curtain. An old man with a scraggly beard looked across its sights.

Russell raised his hands and took his foot off the gate. “Okay, okay,” he shouted slowly. “If you don’t want to talk, at least read the letter. We can talk later. I’ll leave the letter right here.” He wedged an envelope between the lock and the gate and turned his back to cross the road.

The upper floor window slammed shut. The old man and his shotgun disappeared into the dilapidated home.

****

Twenty-five years earlier at their high school graduation, Russell had stepped to the podium to deliver the valedictorian’s address to the class of 1950. He spoke of the importance of integrity and hope, and how that would lead to opportunity.

Joe Billet, Russell’s closest friend sat under the basketball hoop at the back of the stuffy gymnasium. Joe had worked with Russell and his dad at their dairy farm for the past three summers. They had baled hay in the sweltering heat of July and stacked it in the hay mow. They had doled out grain to the Links’ herd of registered Holsteins and milked them morning and night.

Joe had grown up in town, the son of the local barber, but he developed a love of farming while working for the Links family. Both Joe and Russell talked about their common goal of owning and operating a dairy farm. Russell, the only son of the affluent Links family, assumed he would inherit the farm. Joe would need to find another way.

Joe fidgeted in his folding chair, anxious for the ceremony to end. He leaned over to his girlfriend who was sitting next to him and whispered, “I just turned eighteen and a half.” He waited for her to look in his direction to see if she knew its implications. “I got my draft notice in the mail yesterday,” he explained. Her eyes widened.

Joe sighed and said, “I wonder what kind of opportunity Korea has to offer.”

Brenda Nystrim gazed at her boyfriend. Without a word her eyes told him everything he needed to hear—reassurance, affection, and optimism. Joe had fallen in love with her deep brown eyes the first time he had seen them. Shy and expressive, they spoke to him—a lifted eyebrow (Are you certain?), a frown (I’m disappointed.), a nervous twitch (Are you OK?). Mostly though, they were listening eyes, focused and capable of deep understanding. 

Joe had seen the same expression a couple of months earlier. Russell and Joe had led the basketball team to the state tournament. At the final buzzer of the championship game Joe had been fouled in the act of shooting. Behind by one point, making one of two free throws would have sent the team into overtime. Making two of two would have won the game. Joe missed them both. As he stepped off the bus when the team returned home, Brenda had given him that same reassuring look.

The last of seven Nystrim children and the only girl, Brenda also wanted to farm. At her fifteenth birthday party she shared her dream with her family. “Someday I want to own a dairy farm,” she had said as she blew out her candles. She looked up to a silent response. “What are you smirking at?” she asked her oldest brother as she pulled a lock of brown hair behind her ear.

“Oh, nothing,” he had replied. “It’s just so implausible—a girl owning a farm.”

“It shouldn’t be that hard,” said her father, a rheumy-eyed and red-faced man who sat at the table in bib coveralls. “You’ll just have to find yourself a dairy farmer.”

He winked at his oldest son who scoffed at his sister, “With your looks, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Her father looked at a pocket watch that he pulled from his bibs. “It’s nearly five o’clock, Brenda,” he said. “Better eat up that cake quick. Them cows of ours won’t get milked on their own.”

Brenda stuffed a piece of cake in her mouth, licked her fingers and happily retreated to the barn. She savored the solitude and repetition of milking—of placing her hand on each cow’s rump, of slipping the belt that held the bucket over each cow’s back, of washing and wiping each cow’s udder, and attaching the milker to each cow’s teats. She loved the satisfied expression that radiated from each cow as if it said, “Thank you for relieving me of my milky burden.”

Brenda’s brothers had shown no interest in the cows. She had heard them grumbling. “Who wants to be some old hick farmer? I can’t wait to leave the farm. I never want to pick up a pitchfork again. I’m sick and tired of smelling like a cow. I’m moving to town as soon as I can.” Despite the never-ending complaints, Brenda’s father clung to the idea that one of his sons would change his mind and return to the farm. He had purchased a new Surge milking machine and step saver several years earlier hoping one of the boys would reconsider.

He told his sons, “This equipment makes milking cows easy. Look. Even Brenda can do it in half the time.” His sons ignored him and continued their exodus to the city.

Brenda’s thoughts returned to the graduation ceremony. She squeezed Joe’s hand as Russell concluded his speech. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “Things will be fine.” She stood up and followed Joe to the stage to receive their diplomas.

The morning after graduation Brenda approached her father again. “Do you think there is a way I might someday own this farm?” she asked. “You can see the boys don’t want it.”

Her father looked up from his plate of bacon and eggs and belched. “I’ve told you many a time before,” he shouted. “Owning a farm is not a woman’s place!” He banged his coffee cup on the kitchen table and stood up to leave. “A woman owning a farm,” he muttered. “What next?”

Brenda looked to her mother who was stationed at her permanent position in front of the sink. Her mother returned Brenda’s gaze and simply shrugged.

Brenda cast her eyes to the floor, gave a similar shrug and walked to the barn.

****

A worn and faded school bus, compliments of Uncle Sam, collected the draftees for their pre-admission physicals for service in the U.S. Army. Russell Links climbed aboard with his usual confidence and swaggered to the back of the bus. Joe Billet traipsed behind and plopped down next to him.

“What’s in the bag?” Joe asked as he folded his legs behind the seat designed for a first grader.

Russell opened the bag. An aroma of black coffee masked the diesel smell of the back seat. “Coffee beans,” he said as he popped a small handful into his mouth and began crunching with the intensity of a grinder. “Want some?”

“I don’t think so,” said Joe. “I prefer to drink my coffee, not chew it.” He looked at his friend who gulped the grinds and inhaled another handful. “Why are you doing that? You’re going to get a belly ache.”

“You’ll see,” laughed Russell. “I hope I’ll get more than a belly ache from them.”

When they stepped off the bus, an American flag and a young recruiting officer greeted them at the door to the armory. “The U.S. army welcomes you to this first step in serving your country,” boomed the officer in a voice louder than his rank. “The locker room is downstairs. Strip to your skivvies and line up here for your physical exams.”

The young men returned to the gymnasium embarrassed and shivering. The officer pointed to a strip of tape on the floor outlining the path they were to follow. “Just follow the yellow brick road, gentlemen,” he laughed. The old wooden floor creaked as the recruits shuffled from one station to the next for their examinations—eyes, ears, heart, lungs, feet. Every orifice was explored. At the end of the line each recruit was handed an envelope.

When they stepped back on the bus Joe ripped open the envelope and looked at the results. “I passed. Damn. How ‘bout you, Russ?”

Russell tore open his envelope and breathed a sigh of relief. “Failed!”

He smiled, elated. “Medical deferment. Elevated blood pressure.”

****

Joe used his graduation money to buy a diamond the size of a grain of sand. He carried it with him in its simple setting to boot camp at Fort Leonard Wood. Joe invited Brenda to visit him during a three-day leave after he finished basic training. She happily agreed and arranged a trip to St. Louis.

Brenda stepped off the Greyhound into the muggy heat of central Missouri and greeted Joe with a warm smile. “You survived basic!” she said as she gave him a hug. “Don’t you look spiffy in that pressed uniform!”

“Thanks. So far, so good,” said Joe, “but I’m looking forward to becoming a civilian again for a few days. I reserved a couple of rooms at a local hotel. Let’s drop off your suitcase. I’ll change and then we can go to dinner.”

“What did your dad say when you decided to visit me?” Joe asked after they had been seated.

“What you might expect,” she sighed. “‘Where will you stay? I don’t like it. Who will milk the cows? Blah, blah, blah.’ I told him that one of my brothers could come home for a few days to do the chores. Maybe he would grow fond of the cows and stay to take over.”

Joe laughed and said, “I expected as much. Your dad has never thought much of me—and your brothers have never thought much of the cows.”

“No,” Brenda agreed, “but only time will tell.”

Brenda chose not to disclose just how much her father despised Joe. The violent lecture she had received from her father before she left rung in her ears. He had fumed at her with a face that turned from pink to red to purple. “I don’t care if you persuaded your brother to milk the cows. What the hell do you think you’re doing, running off with that ne’er-do-well? I’ve told you time and again that you can do better. You can easily find a respectable dairy farmer with a future. How about what’s his name? Russell isn’t it? He’d be a catch—and his family owns a beautiful herd of cows.”

“Sorry, Dad,” said Brenda. “Russell is just not my type.”

Her father stomped around the house the week leading up to her departure. “Whatever you do,” he had shouted as she packed her bag, “don’t do anything stupid!”

Brenda gazed at her father with the complacency of her favorite cow and walked out of the house. She filled up the crankcase of her ’38 Chev from a five-gallon can of drain oil, wiped her hands on a rag, closed the trunk and departed for the Minneapolis bus depot in a cloud of blue smoke.

Brenda’s thoughts returned to the restaurant as Joe pulled a small box from beneath the table. “I wanted to give you this before I left,” he said as he opened the box. “It’s not big, but I spent everything I have on it. I have loved you since the first time I saw you.” He swallowed hard. “Will you marry me?”

Brenda stared at the engagement ring with a tear in her eye. Was this compassion or love? After a moment’s hesitation she said, “Of course, I’ll marry you,” and extended her left hand across the table.

The next several days Joe and Brenda explored St. Louis hand in hand. As they toured the Old Courthouse in the center of town, Brenda worried about the commitment she had just made. Does this mean I’m trapped?

Joe felt Brenda’s clammy palm. Does she really love me? She hesitated before she accepted the ring. Two years is a long time, he thought as they moved on to Union Station. Will she wait for me?  

They strolled the riverbanks of the Mississippi. Two years is a long time, thought Brenda as she watched the muddy river flow slowly out of view. I’m only eighteen. That’s young to be engaged. Will someone better come into my life?

They sat in the stands of Sportsman’s Park watching a St. Louis Browns baseball game. Brenda took a handful of caramel corn. He’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever known. How could I do better than that? She wiped her hand on her pedal pushers and squeezed Joe’s hand.

Joe squeezed her hand in return and smiled happily. She’s the sweetest gal in the whole world—and she’s mine!

Each evening they retreated to the privacy of their hotel. The first night they groped and kissed until one. The second night they separated at four. The last night Joe could have saved the cost of one room.

They parted company at the bus station. “I promise to write,” Brenda assured Joe as he boarded the bus that would begin his journey to Korea. An hour later Brenda boarded a bus to Minnesota. She found a seat at the back of the bus and spent the ten-hour trip slipping the ring on and off her finger. Just before disembarking, she pulled the ring from her finger and tucked it into her purse.

****

The vice-president of Farmer’s National Bank sat erect behind his desk, his tie straight, his suit pressed, his bald pate as shiny as his desktop. On one corner of the desk was a pen set that identified his bank title—vice president. On the opposite corner was a picture of a family of four. The woman in the picture wore a terse smile. The two small girls sitting in front of the couple wore matching knit sweaters, matching knit brows, and matching bored expressions. The man standing next to the woman in the picture presented a benevolent smile.

“Please sit down, Miss Nystrim,” said the man in the picture. He directed her to a chair to the left of his desk. “I’m Mr. Kersley—Harold Kersley.” He stood just long enough to shake Brenda’s hand before returning to his leather swivel chair.

His long smooth fingers felt uncomfortably soft compared to Brenda’s, whose hands were chapped and calloused. “Yes. I know you who you are, Mr. Kersley,” said Brenda as she pulled her hand away in embarrassment. “You have a loan with my father.

“That’s right,” he said lifting his right eyebrow. “Your father and I have known each other a long time. You are the youngest of the family, right? Six older brothers as I recall.” Harold tidied a small pile of papers. “He speaks highly of you.”

“He should,” said Brenda as she looked closely at the family picture. “He certainly needs me. None of my brothers want to milk cows.” Brenda looked up and continued. “I’m here about the bank teller position.”

“I see,” said Kersley. He stared at Brenda’s folded hands. “It appears that you are unattached—not married or engaged?”

“Why should that matter?” asked Brenda.

Harold’s eyebrow twitched. “Calm down,” he said. “You see, none of our girls can work as tellers unless they are single. I can’t waste my time training someone who will soon be married.” Kersley shot a glance at Brenda’s exposed knee. “You look like the type that ought to be married—or will be soon.”

Brenda blushed but said nothing.

After an uncomfortable pause, Kersley continued. “Do you have any experience?”

“I did well in math,” said Brenda as her eyes met his, “and I get along well with people—even those who are difficult.”

Kersley pulled open a drawer and removed an application form. “We open promptly at nine,” he said. “How will you milk cows and be able to get here on time?”

“We only have twenty cows,” said Brenda, “and I’m an early riser. I’m up by four every morning.”

“Very well,” said Kersley, handing her the application. “Fill this out and give it to the teller on the way out.” As Brenda stood to leave, he appraised her homemade jumper. “We’ll have to get you a proper uniform, he said as he rose to conclude the interview. “I’ll have one of the girls order you a couple of bank uniforms.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Brenda. “You won’t be disappointed.”

“One more thing,” said Kersley as she turned to leave. “We’ll have lunch every Friday to discuss your progress. It’s company policy.”

****

Brenda picked up the bank uniforms prior to starting—a blazer and a couple of sheath dresses. Despite her petite figure, she had to squeeze into a girdle before she wiggled into her dress, a process that added ten minutes to dressing for work. Compared to the freedom of farm clothes, she felt like she was housed in a medieval plate of armor.

A week after Brenda’s first day at the bank she was late—but not late for work. She had always been somewhat irregular, but now she was worried. She waited another four weeks. Still no period, but she began to have cramps in her belly. She forced herself to go into the bank every day, wincing to herself between customers. She complained to her cows. They listened, but offered no comfort.

Brenda spent her first paycheck on a doctor’s appointment.

Dr. Greywell was a kind and elderly gentleman who owned a clinic on the edge of town. He had delivered her and every one of her brothers. He had given her penicillin when she came down with strep throat when she was ten. He had saved her youngest brother’s life when he was diagnosed with appendicitis. When Dr. Greywell was not attending the sick he administered polio vaccine as quickly as it became available.

“Hello, Brenda,” he said as she entered the exam room. “What brings you in today?”

Brenda inhaled a breath of antiseptic. With her brown eyes looking at the floor she explained, “I had my last period eight weeks ago—and I’ve had cramps in my belly. The cramps went away a few days ago, but I’m worried I could be pregnant.”

“I see,” said Dr. Greywell slowly. “Have you been sexually active?”

“Only once,” blurted Brenda, almost in tears, “but I took precautions.”

“And what precautions did you take?”

“I washed myself with vinegar right afterwards—thoroughly.” She looked at Dr. Greywell hoping to see a nod of understanding. “My high school friends always told me it worked for them.”

“I’m afraid that’s an old wives’ tale, Brenda,” he said. “How have you been feeling otherwise?”

“It stung for a little while down there,” she said looking at her lap, “but that went away in about a week. Then came the bellyaches.” She looked around the sterile room. “I’m a teller at the bank. I can’t work there if I’m married or even engaged.” She gave him a wan smile. “I suppose they wouldn’t take kindly to having a baby bump into the counter either.”

“No. I don’t suppose that would go over well,” he said, appreciating her sense of humor in a difficult situation. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’d better find out if you actually are pregnant first.”

“I heard that the test is really expensive,” said Brenda. “Is it something that you can do here?”

“I’m afraid not. It is expensive because I must send a sample of your urine to an animal lab. They usually inject the urine into mice or rabbits, which takes at least a week—and you have to kill the rabbits.” He paused and offered a kind wink. “But I know of a lab that uses frogs! They do what is called the Hogben test. We will send a sample of your urine to the lab and they inject it into a female frog. If you are pregnant, the frog will begin to lay eggs within twelve hours. If the frog does not lay any eggs, you are not pregnant! It’s a lot cheaper too—since the frogs don’t have to be sacrificed.”

Dr. Greywell’s infatuation with the new technology bordered on rapture. Brenda watched his face beam with excitement as he delivered his explanation. “Excuse me, Dr. Greywell,” she interrupted. “That’s all very interesting, and I’m glad you don’t have to sacrifice any rabbits on my behalf, but can I get the test?”

“Oh, sorry. I get so wrapped up in anything new in medical science.” He stroked his chin while thinking a moment. “I am supposed to get parental consent before ordering the test for someone under the age of twenty-one. I don’t suppose your father knows you are here,” continued Dr. Greywell.

“No. We don’t talk much these days,” said Brenda sadly. “I try to avoid him, really. I see him between milking and work for a few minutes each day.” She paused to think. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to tell him I’m pregnant.”

“It’s not my usual procedure, but I understand your predicament,” he said, returning to his professional voice. “You are certainly not the first. Let’s wait for the results. We can decide where to go from there.”

Dr. Greywell handed Brenda a small glass bottle from a shelf above his desk. “Step into the bathroom and use this to collect a sample of your urine.”

Brenda returned with the sample. “Can I stop back to get the results?” she asked. “I’d rather not be notified at home.”

“Certainly. Stop back in a week.”

A week later Brenda tentatively stepped into the doctor’s office. “Have you gotten the results, Dr. Greywell?” she asked with a worried frown on her brow.

He greeted her with a smile. “Well, you are not pregnant,” he said triumphantly.

“Oh my, what a relief,” said Brenda, “but why am I not having my regular period?”

“That’s what we better find out. Let’s start with an exam. I’ll call my wife. I want to have her in the room when I examine my female patients. You can trust her to be as discreet as I am.”

After having been poked, prodded, and peered at with what felt like a freezing telescope, Dr. Greywell completed his exam. He looked up at her with a concerned expression. “I’m afraid you have had a severe uterine infection,” he said slowly. “You may never be able to have children.”

****

Shorty’s Café was tucked between two taverns on Main Street. They vied for customers by promoting weekend meat raffles and dart competitions. The taverns corralled the evening throng of thirsty patrons. Shorty’s commandeered the breakfast and lunch crowds.

Shorty was a stout man with a mass of curly black hair that protruded from his chef’s toque like a knot of tangled fish line. Shorty felt that his fancy headgear elevated, not only his height but the quality of his short order cooking. He occasionally left his place behind the griddle to descend on a customer for an impartial opinion. His patrons soon found that compliments paid big dividends and criticisms did not. Suggestions for improvement lingered in Shorty’s mind until the critic’s next dining experience. If the critic ordered his steak medium rare it would land on his plate charred. If he ordered his eggs over hard, they arrived with the yolk running into the toast.

Shorty’s wife, Mavis was a lanky woman with muddy hair and a long face. She had higher aspirations for life than to be the wife of a short, short-order cook. But there had been only two eligible bachelors in town when Mavis was husband hunting: Harold Kersley, who as a gangly youth with a receding hairline, escaped World War II by qualifying as a Conscientious Objector, and Shorty, who was ineligible because of insufficient stature. Harold, although not particularly capable of physical work, had been assigned to serve his country building conservation structures on nearby federal land. He came home on weekends to face Mavis and her clumsy attempts at charm. Harold ignored Mavis and directed his attention to the daughter of the town banker. That left Mavis with Shorty.

Mavis found little joy in waiting on customers until she discovered a passion for gossip. She specialized in collecting tasty tidbits that could be dispensed with periodic indiscretion. It gave her more power than the mayor.

Shorty’s Café featured a row of booths with red vinyl benches on the right and a line of matching bar stools on the left next to the counter. A half-wall separated the counter seating from the kitchen. Shorty took up residence behind a sizzling grill while Mavis plied the customers with weak coffee and hot beef commercials. In the back of the café, beyond the main seating area was a small dining area with tables covered in gingham tablecloths. The room was usually reserved for the Jaycees, the Lions and feed store promotions.

Brenda and the other two girls employed at Farmer’s National met with Harold Kersley each Friday noon at Shorty’s. Brenda’s two associates—another teller and a secretary, made a point of arriving early to occupy one side of the booth. Brenda found herself squeezed against the wall next to Harold. The mount of an eight-point buck stared down at them as if to mock the proceedings.

Harold ordered a turkey sandwich on white bread—no mayo, no cheese, no lettuce. Then he pulled out a list of grievances to review with the girls. “Brenda, we had a customer complain that she saw dirt under your fingernails. Bev, you spent way too long in the restroom last week. You are expected to use your regular breaks for that kind of thing. Alice, I saw you flirting with that young man who always comes in at the same time every week. I saw him loitering so that you could wait on him. This is not a movie theater.”

Each of the women responded with, “Yes, Mr. Kersley,” after which they choked down their lunches and hurried back to the bank.

Once a month, Bev and Alice had Friday off leaving Brenda to receive a personalized interview with Harold. Sitting across from her at these meetings, and still under the scornful eyes of the dead buck, Harold forgot his complaints about Brenda and complained instead about his wife. “I chose poorly in a wife,” he whined. “She’s so boring—I come home after a long day at work and all she can talk about is soap operas. And the kids! They’re out of control. Every time I step in the door, I hear nothing but screaming.” He stopped to clear his throat and continued indignantly. “There’s always a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. You’d think with all the time she has she would clean the kitchen before I get home.” Harold lifted his eyebrow and looked up at the buck. “What are you staring at?” Then he returned his attention to Brenda. “I suppose I shouldn’t burden you with my problems at home.”

“That’s OK, Mr. Kersley,” said Brenda. “I have time to listen.”

“And then there’s my father-in-law,” Kersley continued. “He watches over me like a hawk. He acts as though I don’t deserve to be there.”

Their conversation was interrupted when Russell Links walked into the café. Brenda met his eyes at the door. “Hello Brenda.” He greeted her with a wink as he passed the table. “Long time no see.” Russell smiled revealing a small chip in his front tooth. “How’s Joe?”

“He’s still alive, as far as I know,” she said quietly. “What happened to your tooth?”

“Got in a little row,” he replied as his tongue touched the chip on his tooth. “You should see the other guy.”

“I thought Joe was the one in danger,” she said. “Aren’t you going to school at the university?”

“I’m on break, but I’m home for the weekend,” said Russell looking toward the back room of the café. “I’m attending a meeting about feeding dairy cattle. With a few adjustments I think I can make our herd the top producer in the county.”

“Good for you, Russ,” said Brenda. “Do you know Mr. Kersley?”

Russell extended a hand across the booth. “How do you do, Mr. Kersley. I believe my father has approached you about the property across from our home farm.”

Harold nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of your interest in that piece of property. It is not available at this time, but when it is, you will be the first to know.”

“Thank you, Harold,” said Russell, suddenly on a first-name basis. “We look forward to hearing from you.”

Russell looked again at Brenda before he went to the back room. “We should have lunch sometime.”

“Perhaps.”

****

The following week Russell sat in the far booth under the buck and waved to Brenda as she stepped into the café. “So, what’s with you and Kersley?” he asked before she had a chance to sit down.

“He’s my boss,” she said with an air of distain as she slipped into the bench seat opposite him. “It’s required.”

“I saw the way he moon-eyed you,” teased Russell. “What would Joe think?”

“What would Joe think if he saw us sitting together?” she countered. “You look as moon-eyed as he does.”

Russell stretched his long legs into the aisle, nearly tripping Mavis as she approached to take their orders. “Hey there,” she said as she snapped a piece of Juicy Fruit. “How are you two love birds today?”

Brenda met Mavis’ inquiring gaze. “You know we are not ‘love birds,’ Mavis—so don’t go around spreading that rumor. We’re just friends.”

“Right,” drawled Mavis. “What kin I getcha, then?”

“I’ll take my usual—the chicken salad sandwich and coffee,” said Brenda.

“Give me a double cheeseburger with fries and a Coke,” said Russell, “and make it snappy. I have an important meeting this afternoon.”

“You bet!” said Mavis, sounding cynically enthused. “I’ll tell Shorty right away.”

“What meeting is that?” asked Brenda when Mavis returned to the kitchen.

Russell laughed. “No meeting—just thought I’d jerk her string.”

Brenda shook her head and thought, What an ass. Then continued, “How’s life at the university?”

“I’m loving it. I’m working on a double major in an-sci and ag economics—and I made the dairy judging team.”

“Very impressive.”

“What do you hear from Joe?” asked Russell. “I hear it’s pretty rough over there.”

“The mail is slow, so I get several weeks of letters all at once. Mostly he talks about the mud and the snow and the cold.”

Mavis returned and dropped their orders on the table. A raw hamburger patty with a glop of Heinz 57 stared at Russell from his plate.

“This burger is still alive!” complained Russell.

“You wanted it fast,” said Mavis. She flashed a toothy grin. “Shorty calls it ‘steak tartare’ but without the egg. He’s been waiting all year for someone to order it.”

Russell took a breath as if to complain again.

“I’ll send for the manager,” said Mavis looking back at Shorty.

“Oh no,” responded Russell quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”

Brenda laughed as she took a bite of her sandwich. “You must have learned a little self-control since your fisticuffs.”

“Only a little,” he said as he tsked his tongue against his chipped tooth.

Russell boasted about his trips with the university judging team while he pushed the raw hamburger around his plate. Brenda talked about milking cows for her dad and working at the bank. When they finished their meals, Russell said, “I’m going to be home for two weeks over Christmas. If you are looking for company, I’m available.”

“I don’t know, Russ. We’ll see..”

Mavis arrived at the table before Brenda said any more. “Anything else for ya’ then?” she asked with one hand on her hip and the other reaching for Brenda’s empty plate. “I see ya’ didn’t clean your plate, Russell. Should I tell Shorty ya’ didn’t like it?”

“No. That won’t be necessary,” said Russell quickly. “Tell Shorty that everything was just fine.”

Mavis snapped her gum. “Have a good day, then,” She said as she dropped the check on Russell’s plate with a flourish. “I’ll report your tip to the boss,” she said as she retreated to the kitchen.

Russell followed Brenda to her car after they left Shorty’s. Brenda said goodbye and climbed into the driver’s seat. The old Chevrolet turned over once and then fell silent. Brenda turned the key again. Click. Nothing. Russell was standing beside the car with a wide grin. Brenda rolled down the window. “What’s so funny?”

“Don’t you worry, honey. I’ll take care of you,” said Russell. “How ‘bout I take you home in a real car? It’s parked around the corner.”

“Do you have a set of jumper cables?” she asked. “It probably just needs a jump.”

“My car is no tow truck,” said Russell. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

“Well, fine,” said Brenda. “Dad can bring me back and give me a jump later.”

Russell led her around the corner. A brand new 1950 cherry red Ford Coupe glistened in the sunlight. “A birthday gift from Dad,” said Russell proudly. “Don’t you just love the groovy whitewalls and that chrome grill?”

“Very nice, Russell. Do you dare drive it on a gravel road?”

“I’ll take it real slow,” said Russell mimicking a southern drawl. “I got all afternoon.”

When they arrived at Benda’s farm, Russell pulled into the end of the driveway and stopped the car. He reached over to put his arm around her shoulder. “How ‘bout a little thank you kiss for all my trouble?”

Brenda slapped him sharply on the cheek. “How ‘bout I walk the rest of the way?” She got out of the car and slammed the door.

Russell was not deterred. He left messages with Brenda’s father over the Christmas break. Her father pleaded with her to return the calls. “He’s a great catch, for Christ sakes,” he ranted. “Call him back. He’s handsome, well educated, and his family is setting him up with his own farm when he returns from college.”

“And what about Joe?” demanded Brenda. “You think I should run out on him while he is serving his country in Korea?”

“Joe can’t expect you to wait around for him,” said her father. “He’s probably already found some cute Asian girl to keep him warm at night.”

****

Over the next eighteen months, Brenda placated her father’s badgering by meeting Russell occasionally at Shorty’s when he was home on breaks. Mavis winked and teased, but Brenda limited her affections to pie and coffee.

Every night before bed Brenda opened a shoe box, slipped on the ring that she kept hidden during the day and read from Joe’s letters. She tried to imagine what he was going through.

                                                                                           September 1950

So far, life here is OK. I think of you every day.

                                                                                            December 1950

I’ve had to sleep with my flashlight batteries and my grenades to keep them from freezing. I try to imagine you beside me instead.

                                                                                            January 1951

We are not allowed to start campfires, but the cold is so penetrating we take the risk once in a while. We found if we pour gasoline on wheat straw we can stay warm for a few hours each night, but we stopped that when we heard the straw was being booby-trapped by the Chinese.

                                                                                            February 1951

My weapon jammed at the start of a battle yesterday. I had to piss on my M-1 carbine to thaw it out.

                                                                                            July 1951

First, we freeze our asses off for this country. Now we can’t cool off. The heat is unbearable.

                                                                                            September 1951

Why the hell did Truman get us into this mess? Censored

                                                                                            October 1951

I’m beginning to think General MacArthur is an egotistical asshole. Censored

Then came the letter she had been waiting for.

                                                                                            January 1, 1952

My Dearest Brenda,

It looks like I’ll survive this hellhole after all. After spending Christmas in the mud and freezing cold of this godforsaken country, I got an unexpected gift. We were on bivouac in the DMZ. I was so cold I couldn’t stop shaking. They told us we were going to get a special hot meal for Christmas, but the supply lines were cut off because of an early snowstorm. They gave us K-rations and cold coffee instead. Turns out that two of my toes were so frostbit that I had to have them amputated at a MASH unit. I’m writing this letter from a hospital bed in Seoul. It sounds like they are sending me to Germany to recover and then home. I should be there by Valentine’s Day. Isn’t that lucky? Uncle Sam stole a couple of my toes but it will be worth it to be there with you. I’ve been re-reading all your letters and imagining our future together—sitting with you in front of a warm fire, milking our own herd of cows, having a pile of kids climbing all over us in the living room. Can’t wait to make it happen. Happy New Year! Hi to Russell. All my love, Joe.

Brenda replied:

                                                                                  January 15, 1952

Dear Joe,
I just got your letter. What an awful Christmas, but I’m so happy that you are finally on your way home. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve stayed busy at the farm milking the cows for Dad and working at the bank. Dad’s arthritis has flared up and none of the boys are around to help, so most of the chores are left for me. I don’t mind though. There are still only twenty to milk and I’m happy with the cows. Dolly is a little lame and Bet came down with mastitis. She may lose the quarter but she still milks fifty-three pounds a day. Otherwise, they’re doing well. Can’t wait to see you. I love you, Brenda

P.S. Russ says Hi. I saw him over Christmas break. His dad bought more land north of town, so he will have something to come home to when he finishes college. I’ve been saving, and with your GI benefits, I hope we can be next. Love, Brenda

****

Joe did not make it home by Valentine’s Day as promised, but on an unseasonably warm day in March Brenda started her car and departed for Minneapolis. Two hours later she pulled into a parking spot near the Great Northern Depot. A row of cement columns lined the front of the building. She waited for a yellow streetcar to pull away from the entrance before she crossed the street, stepped through the curved arches and into the stark whitewashed waiting room. A bank of fluorescent lights hung from rectangular recesses in the high ceiling. Wooden booths lined up like pews in an Episcopal church. Brenda found a seat in one of the hardback benches, pulled her engagement ring from her purse, and placed it on her finger. A train whistle blew in the distance, a signal for the waiting room to empty onto the passenger platforms.

Brenda checked her hair and smoothed the pleats of her plaid circle skirt as the train rolled to a stop. She looked down the line. The man she watched step gingerly from the third car resembled the man she last saw in St. Louis, but there were obvious differences. The man she had seen step smartly onto the bus in St. Louis, now moved with slow deliberation. His uniform, once tightly fitted to a muscular body, now hung loosely over an angular frame.

Joe had been the first passenger to disembark and looked immediately in her direction. Brenda noticed that the confidence in his eyes had been replaced with a nervous skepticism. He smiled weakly, not sure of how he would be received. When he saw Brenda returning a brilliant smile at the end of the platform, he broke into the warm smile she remembered.

“I was worried you wouldn’t recognize me,” he said as dropped his bag and embraced her.

“How could I forget you, Joe. You’re looking good,” she said squeezing his emaciated body. “That little limp is nothing…and I’ll fatten you up in no time.”

“I hope you’re right. It’s not what’s down there that I’m worried about,” he said looking at his feet. He pointed to his head. “It’s what goes on up here. I’ve seen things that no one should have had to see.”

“Let’s go home, Joe,” said Brenda cheerfully. “We have plenty of time to take care of those things. The rest of your fans are waiting at home, but I wanted to be the first to greet you. My car is parked across the street.”

Joe hoisted his canvas duffel bag on his back and followed Brenda to her car.

On the way home Brenda distracted him with news about her cows and her job at the bank. Joe listened politely for a few miles and then interrupted, “When can we get married?”

Brenda swallowed and replied slowly, “I wanted to talk to you about that, Joe.”

“You’ve changed your mind?” he choked.

“No. No, not at all,” she sniffed. “It’s my job at the bank.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “I haven’t been able to tell anyone that we are engaged.”

“What? Why not for god sake? We’ve been engaged for more than a year!”

She slowed the car and pulled onto the shoulder. “You see, if I am married or even engaged, I’ll lose my job at the bank. Mr. Kersley likes me a lot.” She quickly corrected herself. “He likes my work a lot…and I know you want to go to vocational school…If we wait a couple of years while you are at school, I think we could save enough for a down payment on a farm. Right now, we just don’t have it.”

Joe leaned back in his seat and stared at the empty plowed fields. “All I’ve thought about since we parted in St. Louis is being with you again. It’s how I survived.”

“I know, Joe. I’ve dreamed of our last night together nearly every night…but I kept our engagement a secret for us. You have to believe that.”

Brenda let Joe mull over his disappointment and pulled back on the highway. Twenty miles of silence later Joe spoke haltingly. “I understand what you’re saying. What’s another couple of years after what we’ve been through?” Sounding more encouraged he continued, “I’ve saved my army pay, and I think the GI bill will cover my tuition. Between your savings and mine, we should be able to muster up enough for a down payment.”

Brenda reached across the bench seat and took hold of Joe’s hand. She pulled it to her lips and gave it a kiss. “You are safe and at home. That’s the important thing. We’ll still get to spend plenty of time together the next couple of years.”

Brenda pulled into Main Street where a group of friends and family waved a large poster. “Welcome home, Joe!”

****

Joe carried home more than his army-issued duffel bag when he returned from Korea. The whisperings around town called it shell shock. Others called it combat fatigue. Regardless of the diagnosis assigned to him, Joe struggled. His toe amputation left him with a cumbersome limp. His smile became forced and reluctant. He greeted everyone with suspicion.

Joe pushed himself through a two-year program in dairy management at a nearby vocational school. Despite finding the curriculum engaging, nightmares from Korea tormented his sleep. He woke in a sweat watching entire villages being torched because it was suspected that they were Red sympathizers. He shuddered at women and children who had been shot in front of their husbands in attempts to extract confessions. His buddy’s frozen face appeared to him in the early morning hours with eyes that stared at him without recognition. On the rare nights the flashbacks didn’t haunt him, a comment that Russell had made to him did: “I took care of Brenda while you were gone. I took care of Brenda while you were gone. I took care of Brenda while you were gone.”

Joe confronted Brenda about this comment. “What did Russ mean when he said he’d been ‘taking care of you while I was gone’?” he demanded.

Brenda calmly looked him in the eye. “Russell never ‘took care of me’,” she had replied with an aggravated look. “We had lunch at Shorty’s a few times when he was on break, but that was it—only coffee and pie.”

“But I talked to Mavis. She said you were with him a lot,” complained Joe.

“You’d better ask Mavis what she means by ‘a lot’,” she replied. “Russell is nothing but a self-centered pain.”

Still, Joe clenched his jaw thinking of how Russell had avoided the draft—how while Russell sat in a comfortable classroom at the university, Joe had been sitting in a freezing tent; how Russell had been sipping coffee with Brenda in Shorty’s while he had been slogging through the mud in some foreign country that he didn’t even know existed before he was drafted. “Gotdamned army. Gotdamned ‘friends.’”

Brenda did her best to help Joe unload the bitter baggage he had brought home. Joe commuted to vocational school, so he was able to help Brenda with her farm chores after class. Brenda’s father had warmed up to Joe after his return. He saw him more as a patriot than a good-for-nothing who was trying to take his daughter from him.

When Joe had worked for the Links family, he had been able to hustle from one task to the next; when he worked with Brenda, he had to limp from cow to cow. Joe was reluctant to burden Brenda with his nightmares, but she slowly drew out the stories and comforted him with her usual sympathetic eyes. As graduation from vo-tech school approached, she had been able to turn their conversations back to their hopes for the future.

“We should start looking to purchase a farm,” said Brenda. “I still don’t know if we will have enough to get started, but I think we are getting closer.”

“I hope so,” said Joe. “I haven’t been able to save as much as I had wanted. The gotdamned government has been slow in making its payments, so it has cost me more than I expected to go to school.”

“I, on the other hand, have been doing a little better than I thought,” said Brenda smiling with enthusiasm. “No rent and no groceries—Dad pays for that. Living at home has saved those expenses.”

Joe winked at her. “I can’t wait to start filling our own home with kids.”

“Me…too,” replied Brenda, looking away. “I don’t know how many we will be able to have,” she said. Then she returned his gaze with a warm smile. “But regardless, we will have a good time trying!”

****

Brenda’s work at the bank continued, as did her regular weekly reviews at Shorty’s Café. On the fourth Friday of every month, without the company of Bev and Alice, Harold arranged to meet privately in the back room. He continued to share his frustrations about his wife and family. Brenda continued to listen with interest. Harold interpreted this to mean she was happy—or at least willing—to entertain more social advances. The first time he had reached below the table and touched her knee, Brenda froze. She gently took his hand and returned it onto the table. A month later when he offered his hand to her knee a second time, Brenda allowed it to stay in place.

A week before Joe was to graduate from vocational school, Brenda was scheduled to meet with Harold again. She anticipated Harold’s advances as he placed his hand on her knee a third time. He could feel her relax. His hand crept up her leg. As she felt his hand reach the top of her nylons, Brenda leaned over the table and whispered, “About that farm across from the Links property.”

Harold pulled his hand away and sat back in his seat. “What about it?” he asked.

“I saw the owner of that property come into the bank to meet with you,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Is it up for sale now?”

Harold’s face turned pink. “You know I promised to tell Russell Links as soon as it became available. He has a right of first refusal. You were there.”

“I know,” smiled Brenda sweetly. “But I want you to lend Joe Billet and me the money to buy it.”

“I didn’t know you and Joe were planning to get married,” stammered Harold.

Brenda pulled the ring from her purse, slipped it on her finger and extended her hand for Harold to see. “We’ve been planning to get married since before Joe left for Korea.”

“I’m quite certain that you would not qualify for a loan from Farmer’s National,” said Harold. “The Links family is well established and has a longstanding credit history with our bank.”

“That’s why I need your help, Mr. Kersley,” explained Brenda in a formal tone. “Joe and I have been saving for a down payment, but without your assistance the property would undoubtedly go to the Links. We want that farm.”

“Why should I jeopardize my situation at the bank for you?” exclaimed Harold. “My bank examiners would insist that the Links family get first option. And that says nothing about my father-in-law’s opinion.”

Brenda turned to look at a small window leading from the rear dining room to the kitchen. Mavis was peering at them through smudgy glass. “I’ve been adding to Mavis’s tips for some time now. She has been overseeing more than our food delivery.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harold.

“Mavis still feels that you spurned her in favor of the banker’s daughter,” said Brenda lightly. “She has been keeping track of you and your wandering hand.”

“You can’t do this!” shouted Harold. “Who do you think would believe her?”

“You know Mavis has a reputation for knowing everything that goes on in this town,” said Brenda. “That worries a lot of people—because they realize she has a very keen eye.”

“You’re fired!” cried Harold.

“Sorry, Harold. I can no longer work for you. I’m engaged. The wedding is next week. Would you like an invitation?”

Russell Links also received a wedding invitation. He took the news poorly. He called Brenda the day he received it. “You’re making a mistake, Brenda. You know you would have done better with me,” he choked. “And what’s this I hear about you buying that farm across the road from our family farm? I told Kersley that we expected a first option to buy that land when it became available.”

“I know, Russ,” said Brenda sympathetically. “I was there when you made the demand. Mr. Kersley has been persuaded to change his mind. Farmer’s National has given us the loan to buy the property.”

“You’d better not miss a payment,” said Russell. “The bank will foreclose, and I will have that property in no time.”

Brenda replied, “Won’t it be wonderful, Russ? We’ll be neighbors. I hope to see you at the wedding.”

****

[1954]
A bright red barn stood as the centerpiece of the tidy farmstead. The barn had forty stanchions for the milking cows, a calf pen in the rear, and a hayloft that was full of last year’s second crop alfalfa. A towering stave silo stood beside the barn that awaited next fall’s sweet-smelling corn silage. A corn crib, still half-full of cob corn would provide enough grain for the cows through the summer until the corn picker would refill it again. The eighty acres included in the purchase had been planted with corn and soybeans prior to the sale. Twenty-five acres of alfalfa was ready to cut. They decided to call their new home “Billet’s Barn and Farm.”

A two-story classic farmhouse, freshly whitewashed, invited the new couple onto its front porch. Joe and Brenda stepped from the porch and into the living room to celebrate their local honeymoon. “We’ll put the couch there,” said Brenda excitedly pointing to a space below the picture window.

“We can put the old recliner that I took from home over there,” said Joe.

“And all those wedding gifts—the toaster, the mixer, pots and pans—will fill the kitchen,” said Brenda as she stepped onto the linoleum floor. One large bedroom and three more at the top of a narrow set of stairs waited to be filled with joy.

They slept on a mattress in the master bedroom their first night. The following morning Brenda brewed a pot of coffee in their new Sunbeam percolator. A red-topped kitchen table surrounded with four red-vinyl chairs sat in the middle of the kitchen. She placed a cup in front of Joe and sat down next to him at the kitchen table.

“I’ve got something to tell you, Joe,” she said as she held his hand, “and I’m afraid it’s going to make you very disappointed.”

“How could anything you tell me make me disappointed after last night?” he asked looking into her deep brown eyes.

She frowned as she looked at Joe’s wary eyes. “Dr. Greywell says I may never be able to have children.” She saw disappointment cross Joe’s face.

“What does he know, anyway?” said Joe. “Those doctors don’t know everything. How can you trust what they say?” He swallowed hard. “One of those dumb army docs told me I was going to lose my foot. Look at me,” he said standing. “I barely have a limp. Gotdamned doctors.”

“Have a seat, Joe. There’s more to it.”

Joe took his seat again and waited.

“I thought I was pregnant after our weekend in St. Louis,” she confessed. “I went to see Dr. Greywell when I was late for my period. He ran the pregnancy test without my father knowing—even though he was supposed to notify him first.” She paused to see Joe’s reaction.

He sat listening quietly. “Go on.”

“When he finished his exam, he told me I had an infection in my uterus. It’s not the kind of infection that will make me sick, but most likely it will keep us from having children…I’m sorry.”

“You knew about this three years ago. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I guess I was frightened…I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want to believe it was true.” She took a sip of coffee while she watched and waited uncomfortably. “Would it have made any difference?”

Joe ran his hand through his wavy hair, picked up his mug and shook his head. “No. I guess not. Let’s go milk our cows. I can hear them bellowing from here.”

****

Brenda’s brothers had continued to show no interest in the cows and were finding their own way with jobs in town. After Brenda informed her parents that she had decided to marry Joe and she would no longer be able to milk their cows, they agreed to sell her and Joe the cows on a contract for deed. They threw in the modern Surge milking equipment as a wedding gift. Since the cows were gone and there would be no more milk check, Brenda’s parents also sold the land surrounding the farmstead leaving them with ten acres, the house, the barn, and a couple of small sheds.

The twenty cows and their offspring made the trip across town and took up residence in their new home just before the wedding. Within the next two years the stanchion barn was full. Joe and Brenda cheerfully rose each day to care for their beloved herd. Each morning they looked across the road to see if Russell’s barn lights were on. They prided themselves in being the first to turn on the lights. That first day, they flicked on the lights at six a.m. but noticed that the Links barn was already lit up. A week later they moved up starting time to 5:30. The lights across the road were dark for a week, but soon came on at 5:15. By the end of the first month, the race to illuminate the windowpanes with a warm yellow glow began at five o’clock. Within the first year, Brenda and Joe settled on 4:30 as the start of their days. Every morning they glanced across the road to the Links barn. They noticed with satisfaction that it had finally conceded. The Links barn flickered on no earlier than five.

Brenda and Joe Billet settled into a routine typical of dairy farmers across the state. Brenda paid the bills and managed the books. Joe did the fieldwork, and they both milked the cows.

****

A year after Brenda and Joe were married, Russell married Jill, a cheer leader he had met at the university. After graduation, Jill’s aspirations matured from landing safely from the shoulders of a buffed gymnast to landing safely into the arms of a generous benefactor. She landed in the strong arms of Russell Lents.

Russell’s parents built them a new house a short walk from Russell’s childhood home. The three-bedroom rambler rested upon a knoll that overlooked the road and the Billet farm—the one that Russ had hoped to own.

Nine months after moving in with Russell, Jill produced a daughter they named Janet. A year later Jessica arrived. After she was born, sex became a random act of kindness that Jill doled out grudgingly. Russ found her receptive only when she felt the tether to the family finances too restrictive. During his lonely nights, Russ wandered the house and looked with envy at the flickering lights in the Billet house across the road.

By the time their youngest daughter turned six, Jill, Janet and Jessica had taken up a semi-permanent residence at the new mall in town. They became known as the 3 J’s.

On a Saturday evening when Janet was ten and Jessica was eleven, the 3 J’s tumbled into the house and poured their bags of treasures onto the kitchen table. “Look at this new blouse, Daddy” said Janet.

“What do you think of this new pair of shoes?” said Jessica. “Don’t you think they will look good with this skirt? School is starting in a few weeks. I want to look my best!”

Jill beamed with pride. My girls will not turn into country bumpkins! she thought.

Russell nodded his head with tepid enthusiasm, took a final bite of meatloaf, and said, “I expect both of you girls to be in the barn in half an hour. I don’t care what you do with your days, but there are no exceptions to your evening chores.”

The girls looked to their mom. “Do we have to?” they whined in unison.

Jill nodded. “I guess those are the rules.”

Russell pushed his chair from the table and hiked down the hill to the barn. The girls shuffled after him a few minutes later. Russell led them down the aisle between two rows of cows waiting to be milked. “I have a surprise for you, girls,” he said as he turned to a freshly bedded calf pen at the end of the barn.

“I went to the state Holstein sale and bought two premium calves,” beamed Russ. “What do you think?”

The girls propped their elbows on the wooden partition. “They are really cute,” said Jessica, “but what’s so special about them?”

“These gals have a pedigree a mile long” said Russ proudly. “And look at the dairy character! You can show them next year in 4-H. You could earn a trip to the State Fair with these.”

“But we like to show our crafts and embroidery for 4-H,” said Janet.

“You can do both,” encouraged Russ. “I’ll help you with the calves. You just need to get them halter broke and learn to lead them around the ring. I can do the rest.”

The girls still appeared hesitant. Russ added, “If you do well, you can ‘sell them’ at the ribbon sale. The bank, the co-op, the vet clinic, and other businesses bid on each animal. They don’t really buy them,” he said as if it was a secret conspiracy. “It’s a promotion to encourage youngsters in agriculture. I’ll let you keep the money.”

Janet and Jessica looked at each other. “Well, okay,” said Janet. “We’ll have them ready for next year’s fair.”

****

The smell of burnt toast permeated the kitchen. Jessica scraped the charred surface of her breakfast into the sink and sat down to her bowl of Cheerios. Janet was already seated at the table and was about to dip into her bowl of Frosted Flakes. “We are studying the Korean War at school,” she said. “Were you in the army, Dad?”

Russell set his coffee mug on the table. “It was a terrible war,” he said. “I was drafted, but I got what they call a medical deferment—so no, I was not in the army.”

“What’s a medical deferment?”

“It’s when someone has a medical condition that makes them unable to serve.”

“You seem pretty healthy to me,” said Jessica.

“The doctors found that I had high blood pressure.”

“Do you have high blood pressure now?” asked Janet.

“No. I got better.”

Jill had been listening to the conversation while she was filling the girls’ lunch boxes. “Why don’t you tell them the truth, Russ?” she asked icily. “You bragged to everyone at university about how you outsmarted the draft board with your coffee beans. Fess up. You’re a draft dodger.”

She turned to Janet. “You should ask your teacher about draft dodgers.”

Jill wrapped the last sandwich, threw a cupcake and an apple in each lunch box, and snapped the lids. “Come on, girls. You are going to be late. I’ll walk you to the bus.”

Before she walked out the door she turned to Russ. “You need a new toaster.”

****

Thirteen years had passed since Joe and Brenda purchased the farm. The Billet couple started out with high hopes for their dairy enterprise, but luck and chance had not looked kindly on their business. In addition to their mortgage, they took out additional loans for maintenance and machinery. They replaced Brenda’s ’38 Chev with a second-hand Ford that gobbled oil nearly as fast its predecessor. It spent as many hours in the shop as it did on the road. Their Minneapolis Moline tractor demanded new tires before it willed itself to plow another field. The well to the house failed and the replacement spewed brackish water that stained every load of clothes.

Three of the years they had been farming were too dry, three too wet, and the most recent year had been plagued with breakdowns. The baler refused to tie the bales properly, so the alfalfa laid in the field a week too long. The cows settled for chewing on forage resembling straw—not hay. Production dropped. The corn picker jammed, delaying the corn harvest. Corn molded in the crib. Production dropped. The fall payment on the farm was due, so Joe and Brenda were forced to sell corn directly out of the field. It yielded the lowest price on the market.

By spring they needed to apply for another operating loan at the bank to buy feed, seed, and fertilizer. Joe and Brenda went into Farmer’s National Bank together.

“Hello, Mr. Kersley,” said Joe holding his hat in one hand and extending the other.

“Hello Joe,” said Harold, shaking his hand.

He turned to Brenda. “Hello Brenda,” he said as if he had just tasted acid. “I haven’t seen you since last fall.” He raised an eyebrow. “I recall that you were late on your payment.”

“Yes,” said Brenda with a weary sigh. “I’m sorry, Harold. We were a few days late on our payment, but the wet weather delayed our harvest—and that delayed the sale of our corn.” She took a seat next to Joe and noticed that the sign on his penholder now read Harold Kersley, President.  The family picture had been moved to a bookshelf behind the desk. “Congratulations on your promotion,” she said with a piercing look. “By the way, how’s the family?”

Harold scowled at Brenda. “They are doing fine. Thank you.” He situated himself in his leather chair and said, “I suppose you want another operating loan.”

Joe glanced briefly at Brenda before continuing. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Joe. “It’s been another tough year for us—with the drought and all. We’ve come up a little short.”

“Yes, yes. It’s been a hard year for many farmers,” replied Kersley as he pulled a file from his drawer. “Let’s see here.” He shuffled through some papers and placed them neatly in front of him. He squinted at a column of figures. “It looks like you have suffered an operating loss the last three years—and when I look at your balance sheet, if it weren’t for the fact that land values have gone up, you would be under water.”

“Mr. Kersley,” interjected Brenda. “I know things don’t look that good on paper, but I’m sure we can turn things around this year. Joe and I work hard. We are out in the barn together every morning and night.”

“I’ve no doubt that you are hard workers,” sniffed Kersley, “but I have to think of my bank examiners. “They don’t care a hoot about how hard you work—or don’t. They only care about what’s on this paper.” He tapped his ballpoint on the document in front of him.

“We understand that,” said Joe, “but you just said that our land value has gone up. That should make our loan look okay on that paper of yours.”

“Yes. Fine,” said Harold, not wanting to extend the conversation any longer than necessary. “I’ll give you one more year, but if you can’t turn things around in that time, I will not be able to jeopardize the bank’s position any longer. Good day.” Harold stood up and ushered Joe out of the office. He pulled Brenda aside on her way out the door and whispered, “You’ve got nothing on me now. Remember that.”

They stepped onto the sidewalk outside the bank. Joe asked, “What was that all about? I heard Harold say something about having something on him?”

“It was nothing, Joe,” said Brenda as she walked briskly to the car.

“I was obviously something,” said Joe as he slid into the driver’s seat.

Brenda turned to Joe to explain. “We would not have qualified for the original loan on the farm without a little extra leverage.”

“Extra leverage?”

She shifted in her seat. “Harold insisted that all of his ‘girls’ meet with him for a weekly review at Shorty’s. Once a month he made me meet with him alone in the dining room at the back of the cafe. I mainly listened to him complain about his wife. Then he tried to make a pass at me—several times…I decided to turn that stupidity to our advantage.”

Joe stared at her. “And…?”

“I had Mavis secretly watch us through the window to the kitchen. She saw Harold put his hand under my skirt.” She shivered at the reminder of that encounter. “When I pointed out to Harold that his indiscretion need not be made public, he agreed to give us first option on the farm—and he agreed to give us the loan. That’s how we heard that the farm was for sale before Russell did. I knew we did not have enough to qualify for the loan, Joe.”

She sat back in her seat. “We needed that loan, Joe—for our future.”

“So you blackmailed him!” cried Joe. “I can’t believe you were capable of that. Who else did you let touch you?” he demanded. “Gotdamnit all!”

Joe squirmed in his seat, his anger rising. “You knew you couldn’t get pregnant either—so you had nothing to lose if you dallied around with other men.” Joe’s lower lip trembled. “Did you have an affair with Russell while I was in Korea?”

Brenda leaned against the car door. “Of course not, Joe. You should know that by now.” She pushed a lock of hair from her forehead and looked at him again. “I love you—and you’re the only one I’ve ever loved.”

Joe started the car and roared the engine. “I don’t even know who you are any more,” he said squeezing the steering wheel.

“Please don’t say that, Joe.”

 “I suppose you want me to thank you,” he shouted.

“No. I just want you to understand.”

 “Well, I don’t understand this. If you had all this leverage, why isn’t Harold worried about you anymore?”

“I had coffee at Shorty’s last week,” said Brenda, sliding away from the door and closer to Joe. “Mavis told me that Harold’s wife was leaving him. Now that Harold is bank president, he is not beholden to his wife or her father.”

Joe let the engine idle while he thought about what Brenda had told him. He shook his head and voiced another worry. “It sounds like we only have until next fall to turn a profit on the farm. How will we do that? We can barely pay our bills.”

“I’ve got another plan,” said Brenda with regained confidence. “I know how we can squeeze a few more dollars out of our cash flow. We’ll make it work. Trust me.”

“Trust me? Who else can you blackmail?”

“No need for blackmail, Joe. Everything will be fine.”

“Everything will be fine. Huh,” grunted Joe. “Well, we got our loan. Let’s order our seed and fertilizer.”

****

[1967]
The Minnesota State Fair opened with clear skies and a hint of fall color in the trees over Como Avenue. The smell of cotton candy and fried onion rings yielded to the smell of horse manure and caramel corn as Joe and Brenda filed into the Hippodrome. They sat down on a bench about ten rows up from the show ring. A loudspeaker announced the next event. “Take your seats for the 4-H dairy show.

“Look,” said Brenda pointing to the gate at the end of the arena. “Isn’t that Janet and Jessica?” The girls each led a pair of perfectly fitted yearling heifers into the ring. Aside from the numbers pinned to their shirts, the girls could have been twins. They walked into the dusty arena wearing matching white jeans. Their blonde ponytails tied with purple ribbons hung neatly over western-cut blouses.

Someone sat down behind them and rested a hand on each of their shoulders. When they turned to see who it was, Russell Lents said, “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Brenda shook her shoulder free. “Which? The girls or the heifers?”

 Russell chuckled. “I guess they are both beautiful, but I was talking about the heifers.”

“They don’t look very happy to me—I mean the girls,” said Joe who noticed that each girl wore an identical pout. “The cattle look great, though.” Joe gave the cattle a critical view. “Sharp over the withers, big capacity, tight, square udders.”

“You should have been a dairy judge, Joe,” said Russ lifting his hand to give him a friendly slap.

“Yes, Russell. I should have been a dairy judge.” He paused to let it sink in how impossible that had been. Then he continued, “Who is showing those heifers, anyway? You or your daughters?”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Russell who stood to leave.

“I mean Janet and Jessica look like they don’t even want to be here. I can see that from up here.”

“I’ll admit I had to help them wash and fit the heifers,” said Russ, “but the girls trained them to lead.”

“You should be proud of them,” said Brenda. “They are going to do well.”

“Thanks,” said Russell. “Excuse me. I’m going down to the ring to give the girls a couple more tips before the judging starts.” He looked at his daughters. “They will be a lot happier after they win.”

“Winning,” said Joe in disgust after Russell departed. “What an ass.”

The show finished with Jessica taking first place and Janet taking second. “I wonder how big sister is going to take losing to her younger sister,” said Joe.

“I expect she’ll get over it soon,” said Brenda. “Jill is probably waiting for them outside the fairgrounds to take them to the mall.”

Joe grinned and said, “Let’s take a walk. I’d like to see what’s new on machinery hill—not that we could afford to buy anything.”

“That would be fun, Joe, but for some reason I’m really tired,” said Brenda. “Let’s grab a pronto-pup and head home early.”

“That’s not like you,” said Joe as he gave her a concerned look. “We’ve already paid someone to do the chores tonight, and you always want to stick around for the fireworks.”

“I know, Joe. Maybe next year.”

That night Joe made dinner while Brenda watched the evening news. After checking on the cattle he followed Brenda to bed. He curled up next to her, reached across her chest and cupped her breast in his hand. When he gave it a gentle squeeze, he felt Brenda wince. “Brenda. I think I feel a lump!”

Brenda rolled over and kissed him. “It’s nothing, Joe,” she whispered. “It’s just a bruise. I remember bumping myself when I climbed over a gate last week. Go to sleep.”

But Joe did not sleep. The next morning as they sipped their coffee before going to the barn Joe said, “Brenda, you need to go to the doctor. I’m worried about you.”

She set her cup on the table and replied, “You’re not going to like this.”

Joe gave her a wary look. “What now?”

Brenda stared at her cup and said, “I don’t have medical insurance.”

“What? Why not?” exclaimed Joe in a panic. “I thought you were covered under Blue Cross.”

“I canceled my insurance last spring after we visited the bank. You’re covered because you are a veteran. I figured I was young and have been healthy all my life. Money has been tight,” she sniffed. “We could only cover our bills if we didn’t have to pay those insurance premiums.”

“Oh my God, Brenda. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I have always been healthy,” she said defensively. “I know we can’t have kids, so pregnancy was not an issue. We needed the money to pay the bills.” She reached across the table and held Joe’s hand. “Besides, this lump is probably nothing.”

“We need to get you insured,” demanded Joe. “We could lose everything. Please make an appointment with the insurance company as soon as possible.”

The insurance agent, eager to reinstate a lost customer called back that afternoon. Brenda answered the phone.

“We will need a physical exam before we can issue a new health insurance policy,” said the agent. “I can make an appointment for early next week.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

She hung up the phone and explained the situation to Joe who was in the kitchen with her and had just finished lunch.

“They need an exam?” he asked.

“I’ve had those things before,” she said. “They usually just ask a few questions and sign you up.”

In Brenda’s case however, the nurse representing the insurance company was unusually thorough. She discovered the lump during her physical exam and gave Brenda a worried look. “We can insure you Mrs. Billet, but you have what we call a pre-existing condition. This policy will not cover any expenses related to breast cancer.”

“But I’ve never had breast cancer,” argued Brenda. “How do you know it’s not just a bit of scar tissue. It happens all the time in a cow’s udder.”

“You are not a cow, Mrs. Billet,” said the agent tersely. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

When Brenda shared the news with Joe, his only reply was, “Gotdamned insurance companies!”

****

Brenda waited to see Dr. Greywell until the harvest was complete. The crop yields had been disappointing. The corncribs were full, but there was no extra grain to sell. The hay mow was stacked to the top of the barn, but the quality was poor. Milk production fell again. The milk check covered their expenses, but little else. The annual bank payment loomed in mid-December.

Dr. Greywell completed Brenda’s physical exam a week before Thanksgiving. Joe had joined them in the doctor’s office. “That lump in your breast is disturbing,” said Dr. Greywell. “I wish you had come to see me earlier.”

“We needed to get the crop in first,” said Brenda.

“I asked her to see you earlier this fall,” said Joe, “but she is too dedicated to the farm and her cows.” He shifted in his seat. “Where do we go from here?”

“I am referring you to the University of Minnesota oncology department immediately,” said Dr. Greywell. “They will give you a complete assessment, and they can offer you the best treatment options if it turns out to be cancer.”

Cancer. The word hung in the air and followed them to the car.

“Don’t worry ahead, Joe,” said Brenda who tried to reassure him as they stepped out of the doctor’s office. “It could just be scar tissue. Besides, there is nothing more we can do for now except wait for a phone call from the university.”

The Monday after Thanksgiving Joe drove into a parking lot next to the University of Minnesota hospital. They stepped out of the car into a biting north wind. Brenda pulled the lapels of her coat closer together as the wind tore at her jacket. Flurries of snow swirled against the imposing brick hospital. Joe and Brenda huddled together as they crossed the street and stepped into the sparsely furnished waiting room.

A nurse in a white cap sat behind a typewriter at the registration desk. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” said Joe. “We have an appointment with the oncology department. Can you direct us there?”

“Certainly. I just need you to fill out a couple of forms.” She reached into a lower desk drawer and produced two forms. “Just fill in the blanks. The first one is your insurance information. The second is a consent form.”

“I guess we will be paying for this ourselves,” Joe stammered. “Brenda does not have insurance. Do you have a form for that?”

The receptionist frowned. “No insurance? I’m sorry to hear that,” she said as she reached to the back of her drawer and pulled out a different form. “Cancer can be very expensive. Let’s hope we can give you good news today.” She pointed to the elevator with a sympathetic smile. “The oncology department is on the third floor. Turn right when you step out of the elevator.”

Brenda was shuffled from one department to another while Joe waited anxiously in a straight-back chair. He paged through Field and Stream four times, once through Life magazine, and wished for a copy of Farm Journal. After a trip to the cafeteria in the basement of the hospital and an uncomfortable afternoon, the doctor finally arrived to summarize his findings. He pulled up another chair and sat down in front of them. “As we suspected from your physical exam, the radiographs show that there is a lump in your left breast. It looks like cancer. Unfortunately, we can also see several dark spots in your lung. It appears that the cancer has already spread to other parts of your body.”

The color drained from Joe’s face and he turned to Brenda. “I’m so sorry.” He put his arm around her.  “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. Then she turned to the doctor. “What are we going to do?”

“To begin with, you will need surgery,” said the doctor matter-of-factly. “I expect the surgeon will want to perform a radical mastectomy.”

“What does that mean?” asked Brenda.

“He will have to remove your entire left breast, some of the muscle tissue between your ribs, and the lymph nodes beneath your collarbone. After you heal up from that I will start you on a course of radiation and chemotherapy.” The doctor waited for a moment for them to digest the news. “You must know that the outlook is not good, but we will do everything we can to give you the best chance of survival.”

Brenda looked at the floor. “We don’t have insurance,” she said. “How will we be able to pay for all of this?”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied the doctor shaking his head. “You will need to talk to our hospital manager. He will discuss the financial matters with you.” He stood and shook hands with Joe and then Brenda. “I’ll leave instructions at the front desk for you to return for surgery.”

Before they left the hospital, they signed papers that gave the hospital a lien on the cows as collateral for the medical expenses they were about to incur.

It was dark when they left the hospital. A lone streetlight illuminated their car, which was the only one left in the lot. “I’m so sorry,” cried Brenda angrily. “I thought I was doing us a favor.” Tears flooded her eyes. “What’s going to happen to us?”

“I don’t know, Brenda,” said Joe as he turned on the ignition. “Gotdamned insurance companies!” They drove home in a deepening gloom.

****

The payment on the farm was due in two weeks. Brenda’s surgery was scheduled for early January and Joe knew he couldn’t do all the chores without her help. In order to satisfy Harold Kersley and Farmer’s National, the couple decided to sell their young stock and their bred heifers—the young animals that they kept to replace the cull cows. The young stock were not included on the hospital’s lien—only the milking herd—so they breathed a sigh of relief when the proceeds from the sale was enough to make their annual December farm payment.

Joe wore a path to and from the university hospital the winter of 1968. Brenda’s surgery was successful, but the chemo took a devastating toll on her health. Three times a week, after Joe milked the cows, he heated up the car, bundled Brenda in a heavy quilt and drove to Minneapolis. He sat in the waiting room while Brenda received her treatment. As soon as the chemotherapy was complete, he loaded her into the car for the return trip, arriving home just in time for the evening milking.

Jill Lents appeared at their doorstep the day after Brenda’s chemo. “I’ve brought you my favorite casserole,” she said, handing Joe a hot dish wrapped in a bath towel.

“Thank you, Jill,” said Joe. “I’m surprised to see you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” said Jill. “I know you’ve had a rough time.’

“That’s very kind. Brenda does not feel well, particularly the first day after her chemo—and my cooking leaves something to be desired.”

Jill’s favorite casserole was tuna fish—a concoction of tuna, noodles, and cream of mushroom soup topped with potato chips that had once been at the bottom of the bag. Jill arrived once a week offering the same dinner. Joe and Brenda invited her in to visit while they ate. Brenda dined on lemon Jello laced with fruit cocktail while Joe inhaled mounds of the casserole. Brenda usually excused herself after dinner, retired to her bedroom, and fell asleep listening to Joe chat with Jill.

Whenever the slightest moan came from Brenda’s bedroom, Joe jumped from his chair to offer a backrub or a sip of water.

When Joe returned to the living room Jill said, “I have never received that kind of treatment from Russell—even when I returned from the hospital with our newborn babies.”

“That’s too bad,” said Joe. He began to say something more but thought better of it. “Don’t you think you should be at home for dinner with Russell?”

Jill looked through the picture window and across the road. “The barn lights are still on,” she said. “Russ won’t be in the house until chores are finished. I’ll take him the leftovers when I see the barn lights go off.”

Joe put the cover on the casserole dish and set it by the door. “Is this your mother’s recipe?” he asked. “Not to complain, but you make the same thing every week. Russell must love it.”

“He hates it!” said Jill, looking again through the window. “Oh. It looks like the barn lights are off.” She put on her coat and grabbed the dish. “See you next week.”

Brenda had lost all her hair and replaced it with a wool scarf. She also lost a fourth of her weight. Between her reduced appetite and her perpetual nausea, Brenda shrunk from one hundred twenty pounds to just over ninety. She looked in the mirror at the skeleton that she had become. She snickered and said to Joe, “I wouldn’t need a girdle to fit into the bank uniform anymore.”

By April first, Brenda had recovered enough strength to follow Joe to the barn. She sat on an overturned five-gallon pail and watched him move from one cow to the next, applying the milking machine to each cow’s udder and removing it a few minutes later. The steady pulsation of the milkers and the sweet smell of straw and cow manure were as therapeutic for Brenda as any medicine. By the end of the month, she was moving from cow to cow with Joe.

The end of April found them seated before Harold Kersley’s desk. Harold flipped through the financial statement that Brenda had assembled.

“I hear you’ve had a rough winter,” said Harold. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you feeling better, Brenda?

“Yes. Thanks,” replied Brenda as she straightened the colorful scarf that had replaced her woolen head dress.

“Unfortunately,” said Harold raising his eyebrow and looking at the couple, “Your financial statement looks as though it has suffered as well.”

“We’ve tried our best,” stammered Joe.

“As you recall from our conversation a year ago, I needed to see improvement before I could offer you another operating loan.” He paused to clear his throat. “I was happy to see your farm payment arrive on time, but I’m afraid I cannot provide you with another operating loan. My bank examiners flagged your account, and they would be furious if they found that I had extended you additional credit.”

Joe was about to speak when Brenda touched his arm and said, “What are our choices at this point, Harold?”

“Well,” said Harold leaning back in his swivel chair, “Apparently you will not have the financial where-with-all to put in a crop, so I see that you have two choices. You could rent the farm to someone else and use the income to pay for feed for the cows, or you could sell the farm. The farm value has appreciated to cover your loan, and you would have enough left over after the sale to leave you with a modest nest egg to use as you like.”

“All you bankers,” cried Joe. “You’re all a bunch of greedy thieves.”

Brenda sat quietly for a moment looking around the office. “I see your family picture is gone, Harold.” She stood to leave. “Come on Joe,” she said. “We are finished here.” She turned to Harold before they left his office. “I hope you and your bank examiners are happy,” she said bitterly. “Good day.”

Once outside, Brenda tightened her scarf and said to Joe, “I think we should talk to Russell Lents to see if he is interested in renting the land from us.”

Joe raised his eyes from the cracked sidewalk. “I’m sure he would be more than happy to make us a miserable offer,” he said as he zipped up his coat. “He knows we are backed in a corner.” The despondent couple shuffled to their car. Joe opened the door for Brenda. “Your medical expenses will be coming due soon. We won’t be able to cover that bill and pay for feed for the cows with the rent from the land. We’re screwed.”

****

“I’m not interested in renting from you, Joe!” said Russell when Joe proposed the new arrangement to him. “You know I’ve wanted to own this farm for years. It would have been mine already if you and Brenda hadn’t bought it out from under me.” He tsked his tongue behind his chipped tooth and opened his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “But what I will do is offer you a fair price on the land—and you can have the first cutting alfalfa.”

Brenda and Joe used the proceeds of the sale of the land to pay off the loan at Farmer’s National and put what was left in a savings account in a different bank.

It turned out that Brenda and Joe had no need for the hay. They milked the cows through the summer and fed the cows the remaining hay in the loft. By August the bills that were due for Brenda’s treatment had piled up on the kitchen table. When they tallied the totals, it came to more than what they had in the bank. The hospital called in the lien on their cows. On the first of September Brenda and Joe stood hand in hand as a cow jockey loaded their herd onto livestock trailers to take them to the sale barn.

Brenda’s favorite cow, Malinda was spared. “She’s just an old two-titter,” said the cow jockey. “You may as well keep her since she won’t bring much at the sale anyway.” Malinda had stayed in the barn, locked in her station as her thirty-nine herd mates were cajoled onto the trucks.

“I can’t watch anymore,” said Brenda.  She walked into the nearly empty barn and patted Malinda on the back. “We’ve still got you, old girl,” she said as she spread fresh straw underneath her pet cow. “Even with half an udder, you will give us milk for our cereal, cream for our coffee, and a new baby later this winter.”

Joe joined her in the barn after the livestock trailers had driven away. “Are you okay?” he asked as he put his arm around her.

“We’ll be fine,” she said as she gazed at Malinda. “It’s not a herd, but we still have a cow.”

“Next week I guess I’ll have to go into town and look for a job,” said Joe.

****

[1968]
Joe started at a twist-tie factory in town called BNE, Bread-ties Never Ending, a company that manufactured and distributed twist-ties to bakeries and plastic bag companies across the country. Joe’s initial responsibility at BNE was to sit at the end of a sixty-foot laminator that converted spools of wire into single twist-ties. He waited for the bread-ties to accumulate on a table at the end of the machine and sweep them into paper boxes. As he sat at the table day after day he thought, BNE should stand for Brain Numbing Employment.

Joe fell into a routine of filling his lunch box with a ham and cheese sandwich, an apple, and a Twinkie each morning and returned each evening in time to watch the Viet Nam disaster play out on television. The graphic news coverage renewed the nightmares that plagued him after his return from Korea.

The first two years at BNE were unhappy ones for Joe. He was bored, his supervisor disliked him, and he took out his frustrations in the break room. “I had to fix a leaky faucet yesterday,” he complained as he bit into his ham sandwich. “Some sonofabitch stole my pipe wrench.” He swallowed and looked around the room as if he were sharing a secret. “I’ll bet it was that bastard who lives across the road from me. First, he takes my farm. Then he pesters me about wantin’ to buy my house too. He’s never satisfied. I’ll bet he took it.”

His co-workers listened politely and smiled. One of the fellas said, “That’s probably it, Joe. You’d better keep an eye on him.”

“I’m putting up a new gate with a NO TRESSPASSING sign,” said Joe. “That’ll fix him. 

Several weeks later Joe opened his lunch box to find that his Twinkie was missing. “Who the hell stole my Twinkie?” he demanded. His eyes roamed the room looking for signs of guilt from his co-workers. They gazed at him in silence with a look of pity and embarrassment. When Joe returned home that evening, he found an unopened package of Twinkies on the counter next to the toaster.

A week later when he sat down in his private corner of the lunchroom, he found that his packaged dessert was missing again. He was certain that he had packed it because he had checked the lunch box before he placed it in his locker in the morning. He asked his co-workers more politely. “I’m sorry about my outburst last week,” he told the group. “Last week I found my dessert on the counter at home, but now it’s missing again. Do any of you know who might have messed with my lunch box?”

Joe’s line chief spoke up. The line chief worked at the front of the machine and fed spools of wire into it. “None of us are allowed in the lunchroom between our scheduled break times,” said the old-timer. “The only one allowed in here is the supervisor. He seems to have it in for you, Joe.”

“Huh,” said Joe. “I’ve noticed that too. I guess I’ll have to pack an extra Twinkie for him tomorrow.”

The table of co-workers erupted in laughter. “Maybe we should all bring him a Twinkie tomorrow,” suggested the older co-worker.

The next day, Twinkies covered the lunch table. Joe never lost another item from his lunch box.

While Joe put in his time at BNE, Brenda, slow to recover from her breast cancer, went to the barn morning and night to milk Malinda and care for Malinda’s offspring. Soon after the herd had been sold, Malinda delivered a young heifer calf. About a year later she presented Brenda with a bull calf.

Brenda had enough energy to take care of her tiny herd, but the farm fell into disrepair. Chipped paint was ignored. Machinery was left to rust in the grove, and the corn crib was deeded to the rats.

During those years, Joe’s nightmares continued. His mood swung erratically depending upon how his day went at BNE. If his day went well, he came home enthusiastic. If he had been hassled by his supervisor, he returned home despondent. Brenda tried to reason with him. “Joe, you can’t control what that man says or does to you. It sounds like no one in the plant likes him. Don’t take him so seriously.”

About two years after Joe took the job at BNE, a letter arrived from the law firm of Brown and Bagley. Brenda’s father had passed away from a heart attack a month earlier. Her mother had died several years prior to that. Joe and Brenda attended the funeral, visited with her brothers, and watched Brenda’s nieces and nephews romp through the church basement where the lunch had been served. Brenda’s oldest brother was the executor of the estate. Brenda knew she was unlikely to receive anything substantial, so it was a surprise when they opened the letter to find that she was to inherit her father’s farmstead.

“Look at this, Joe,” Brenda said as she handed him the letter. “The old man must have changed his mind at the last minute.”

“What do you suppose made that happen?” Said Joe after he read the letter. “We didn’t spend a lot of time with him, but I know you made a point of visiting him at least once a week—even when you weren’t feeling well.”

“Most of the time when I visited, he complained that he never heard from his sons,” said Brenda as she carefully folded the letter, “but he never let on that he wanted me to have the farm. He always believed that the only way a woman could own a farm is to inherit one from her husband.” She laughed. “Maybe he changed his mind out of spite toward my brothers!”

“Well, you will inherit this farm too,” said Joe as he looked out the window.

“Maybe we should sell this place,” said Brenda. “We can move back into Dad’s house and use the proceeds to buy a little more land over there. It only has ten acres including the house and the barn.”

Joe mulled over the idea. “I’ll never let go of this place,” he said firmly. “Russell Lents has been waiting all his life to get his hands on this place. I won’t allow it.”

Talk about spite, thought Brenda. “That’s fine, Joe,” she said. “We can keep this place, but let’s move into the place we have just inherited. I’m tired of living right across from Russell and his peeping wife—and Malinda and her little herd will be happier in a barn that isn’t tumbling down.”

****

[1970]
Brenda and Joe moved into Brenda’s home place and locked the gate to Billet’s Barn and Farm. Despite their permanent move, Joe insisted on spending a few nights at their old place every year—mostly to remind Russell that he and Brenda still owned it, but also because he felt it was kind of a pilgrimage to their disappointed dream. Initially, Brenda joined him on these annual visits, which took place over the Labor Day weekend.

The first weekend the couple returned for their annual retreat Jill Lents arrived bearing her trademark tuna fish casserole. Brenda met her at the door. “Are you selling girl scout cookies?” she asked.

“N-n-no,” stuttered Jill. “I thought you might be moving in again, and I wanted to be a good neighbor.”

“No need for charity,” said Brenda. “We’re just visiting for the weekend—and we are having hamburger hot dish for dinner.” She stared at the steaming towel in Jill’s hands. “Besides, Joe has lost his appetite for tuna,” she said and closed the door.

Prior to the annual weekend pilgrimages Brenda noticed that Joe became anxious and unsettled. He refused to shave. He became depressed and short-tempered, and he lost his appetite. She suggested to Joe that the visits to their old property weren’t necessary to claim ownership, but Joe was adamant. After several years, and after Jill had stayed safely on the Lents’ side of the road, Brenda agreed that he should go on his own. He returned each year from his weekend retreat seemingly refreshed. Brenda knew that part of Joe’s problem was that Labor Day was the anniversary of discovering her cancer. She figured if Joe came home feeling better, a weekend at the old farm was cheap therapy.

****

After two years of frustration at BNE Joe’s fortunes improved. His old nemesis and supervisor retired. After having survived years of pranks and needling from the man who was despised by all, Joe had gained the sympathy—and even the respect—of his fellow workers. Joe was promoted to supervisor. Most managers were not welcome in the employee lunchroom during breaks, but Joe was an exception and was encouraged to join them.

Joe found that he was a good motivator. He searched for jobs done well and complimented each employee publicly. He posted a sign at the entrance to the factory that read, “If all of the twist-ties you produce in a year were placed end to end, they would stretch to the moon and back three and a half times!” Joe noticed that instead of taking home bundles of bread-ties in their lunch boxes, the employees took home a sense of pride in their work. Every employee already had a massive supply of twist-ties to secure their bags of home-made bread and stray bolts. What they needed was encouragement and recognition.

****

Janet and Jessica Lents graduated from high school in 1974 and 1975 respectively and had enrolled at the University of Minnesota. That left Jill wandering the halls of her empty nest. She moved restlessly from her new sofa to her armchair and back again. She longed for the days when she led the 3 J’s to the mall every weekend.

“I am tired of life on the farm, Russell,” she told him one evening when he came in from the barn. “I want to move to the Cities to be closer to the girls.” She placed a plate full of tuna fish casserole in front of him. “I want a divorce.”

Without a moment’s hesitation Russell looked up from the plate. “Well, I’m tired of tuna casserole,” he said. He looked at the pale, tasteless dish in front of him and plucked a potato chip from the plate. “I expect you think you deserve a fortune for all the work you’ve put into the farm,” he said, his voice laced with cynicism.

“I can be reasonable,” she replied. “You can sell off that eighty across the road—the Billet property. You didn’t really need it anyway. That should cover my share of the settlement.”

There is a reason why divorce is so expensive, thought Russell—because it is worth it. “Okay,” he said as he pushed his plate to the middle of the table. “I’ll give Brown and Bagley a call. I’m going to town to eat.”

That night when he returned from dinner, Russell composed a letter to Joe Billet. The next morning was Labor Day and his house was empty. Russell went to the barn, finished his chores, changed his clothes, and crossed the road to Billet’s Barn and Farm carrying his letter. He knew Joe was in the house. Joe had been coming every Labor Day weekend for the last five years. Russell stepped on the gate with the NO TRESPASSING sign. “Joe!” he hollered waving the letter in his hand. “I just want to talk to you. We were best friends in high school, for god sake.”

A tattered curtain flapped from an upstairs window. The barrel of a double-barrel shotgun lifted the curtain. An old man with a scraggly beard looked across its sights.

Russell raised his hands and took his foot off the gate. “Okay, okay,” he shouted slowly. “If you don’t want to talk, at least read the letter. We can talk later. I’ll leave the letter right here.” Russell wedged an envelope between the lock and the gate and turned his back to cross the road.

As dusk fell on the dilapidated home, Joe threw the shotgun on the junk pile behind the house, limped to the gate, placed the letter in his pocket, and returned home to Brenda.

He sat down at the kitchen table. “I had a visitor at the farm today before I came home,” he said.

“Was it Jill?” Brenda asked warily.

“No. It was her husband. He put this letter in the gate before I sent him on his way.” Joe set the letter in front of Brenda. “You read it. I can’t imagine what he wants now.”

Brenda opened the envelope and read the letter aloud:

Dear Joe and Brenda,

         Jill has decided to leave me. I can’t really blame her. The girls are gone, and she has never taken an interest in the farm. As you might expect, she wants a substantial settlement. I need to sell the eighty acres that used to be a part of Billet’s Barn and Farm to meet her demands. I would be happy to accept a discounted price and arrange a favorable contract for deed if you will buy it back.

Please advise as soon as possible.

                                                                        Sincerely,
                                                                                  Russell Lents

Joe and Brenda did not reply immediately. After a week of mulling over the letter Brenda took a pen and piece of paper from their desk and wrote as Joe dictated their response:

Dear Russell,
         Thank you for your generous offer, but we are no longer interested in the property. As a matter of fact, we have decided to put the remainder of Billet’s Barn and Farm up for sale as well. It’s all yours.

                                                                                  Sincerely,
                                                                                  Joe and Brenda Billet

Three years later Joe and Brenda were driving to the University of Minnesota oncology department. They drove past Billet’s Barn and Farm. “I don’t miss our dilapidated home,” said Joe as the house and barn faded into the rearview mirror.

“Me neither,” said Brenda. “Now that it’s gone, I feel like a weight has been lifted from around our necks.” Brenda focused on the road ahead. “Besides, Malinda is expecting again. We have the start of a new herd at home.”

The trees had grown taller and several new buildings had sprung up around the university hospital, but the parking lot where they had first received the devastating news of Brenda’s cancer was still there. They sat together in the car after completing their visit. Joe turned to Brenda who had just received her ten-year clean bill of health. “It’s Friday night. It’s the last weekend of the State Fair. Let’s see those fireworks we have missed so often.”

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