“I had a light dinner,” Dad said, taking the stairs up. “That’s about all I have these days.”
He went to the kitchen and I followed. The living room hadn’t changed other than a couch that might’ve been new ten years ago. Same with the recliner. A flat-screen TV was newer, but still a few years old. He had a show paused. On the far wall was our old family picture. Look at all of us smiling. Memories of that day threatened to intrude. I blocked them out.
I shifted my focus to the kitchen. Nothing had been updated in the kitchen other than the appliances. What had he sold to pay for those?
A tiny tendril of shame spiraled through me. Would I rather he squat in a house with no working fridge or stove and threadbare furniture that smelled like bachelor funk and stale beer?
Maybe I would’ve said yes weeks ago, but for the moment, I was more grateful that he’d kept the house in fairly recognizable condition. I was glad he’d had things to keep him afloat until he had to make the final decision to sell. Him wanting to move to town wasn’t my issue.
He got a second plate and fork out. Then he filled a mug from a drying rack with some coffee from a pot and sat at the table. “There’s no way I can eat all this.” His chuckle was self-deprecating. “I don’t require too much these days, but sandwiches do get old.” He made a delighted noise. “Pork chops! Want half?”
“No, thanks. Save it for lunch tomorrow.” He was only going to eat half a pork chop? I studied him with amore critical eye. He was healthier than I’d seen him last, like I’d thought when Autumn and I had first stopped by, but he was no longer a towering man. The years of alcoholism might’ve done their damage, but he also wasn’t farming and ranching anymore. He was just existing in a house that used to be filled with love and laughter.
“You’ve been helping the Baileys?” he asked around a mouthful of food.
“For a few days. Figured it didn’t hurt to show them I’m not some city asshole.”
“Not all city folk are assholes.”
I grunted. “A lot of them are.”
He chuckled and stabbed a hunk of fried potato. “Same with country folk.”
An easy silence fell between us. When we’d been replacing the fence, he’d filled in the silence with chatter about who was doing what, where my old classmates had moved to and what marriage they were on, and what businesses had come and gone in the time since I’d moved. Before, when he’d been sick, he used to rage about the market price for grains, the diminishing returns for ranching, and the expense of equipment and repairs.
Without his resentment or the work around the place, what did he have to talk about?
“You doing any more work on the shop or fencing?” I asked because speaking was better than realizing how little I knew my dad these days. He wasn’t the same hurt and angry man I’d left behind.
“I’m replacing a few posts here and there.”
I waited as he took a few more bites and made a delighted noise. The question burning on my tonguespilled out. “Are you the one keeping up the memorial where Mom died?”
He stalled chewing, then swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said gruffly and wiped off his mouth. “Yeah, I figured I’d better get out there one more time, you know, before the snow flies.”
Before he’d be considered a trespasser.
“After the closing, I’ll continue sprucing up her grave. You should see how big the trees at the cemetery have gotten.”
I didn’t give a fuck about the trees. I wouldn’t be going to the cemetery. My only memory of that place was Mom’s burial. My grandparents hadn’t had a service, so there’d been no need for me to return for that.
Time for a subject change. “Tate said you help at the food pantry.”
He paused briefly while sawing a chunk of his pork chop. “Yeah. I had to use it enough, thought it was time to give back.”
“You had to use it?”
He shrugged. “Happens when you mismanage your business.” He stuffed a bite in his mouth and chewed, his expression introspective. “I’m glad I made it until your grandfather passed. He would’ve been delighted to see me in line for some canned goods. Just another way to point out how I’d ruined everything.”
The sympathy that rose was surprising. “You two talked after I left?”
“I wouldn’t call it talking. He wheezed and I listened, like always. Out of respect for your mother. Like always.” He studied his food, his brow furrowed and his expression heavy. “Ya know, I was never cut out for this life.”
“You were born and raised on a farm.”
His smile was understanding. “A small one. My parents never took on more than they could handle and they were never interested in expanding. They each liked their jobs in town. I had to work for the farm, but I also got to do my own thing. Then I met Jenni.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. “This was her place. The whole operation was her family’s, and it was either jump in with both feet or leave her behind. She couldn’t leave.” His smile faded. “Well. You know which I chose.”
And then when she’d passed, he’d been left with a business that included both farming and ranching. Percival was more than a hobby. This place had to become his life.
