Giacomo's Letters

Gail

____1____

The torn flap of the envelope caught my eye stacked with others unopened, all bills. Bills were left sealed in the same place on the kitchen table under the sugar bowl until the same one came twice. Then they disappeared and I guessed were paid since the lights worked and the house had heat in winter. These were not matters of concern to me because my mother had relieved me of their worry with the comment, Bills aren’t for twelve year olds to fret about.

An open envelope that wasn’t a bill was fair game; otherwise, it would have disappeared into my mother’s purse with all the other stuff she hid there. Private stuff a twelve year old never saw but perpetually wondered about. The envelope wasn’t on top. From that I concluded I was meant to find it but not to say anything about it. I teased it from the pile and turned it over seeing the postmark. Los Angeles, I whispered. In California. It was addressed to Francesca Johnson at our address so the postman had not erred.

I knew where California was on a map and knew the capitol was Sacramento. I knew the capitols of all fifty states by heart and had gotten an A on that assignment that I thought was stupid because anybody except Kippy Bloomfield could memorize fifty words. He also couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and was told by Miss Dale the music teacher to mouth the words at the Christmas concert last year. He just stood there because he couldn’t remember the words. I wondered what Kippy’s parents thought and tried to spot them in the audience but hadn’t. I’d seen them with sad expressions at one parent and teacher night as they conversed with Miss Van Meter at Kippy’s desk.

It was July, so school was out. When I returned in the fall I would be thirteen, a sought after age, and in eighth grade. I was anxious for my birthday to come in August that would admit me to the ranks of a teen. Maybe something also sought after would happen to my body at that magic transition that so far hadn’t. I was tired of being called String Bean and Flag Pole by the boys in last year’s class. I could have called them all Shorty but felt above trading insults with boys.

At night before falling asleep I prayed, Please, God, if you are up there or wherever, let me grow some and all the other stuff that happens whatever it is, Amen. Frances hadn’t told me what and what was the point of raising the subject before something happened? None.

Looking inside the envelope, I saw a folded piece of paper. It was a letter addressed to Fran. I’d never known my mother to be called that. I called her Frances when we were bickering over things. In between, I called her, Mother.

The letter was one page and written with a very sloppy hand in cursive in smudged pencil of all things. I wondered if the writer might have been better off printing since as I read, some letters and therefore words were challenging to decipher. Reading was made more difficult because lines were crooked and ran into each other.

With each line, my mouth dropped farther open. At the bottom was written: Your brother, Jack. Brother! I gasped. I didn’t know anything about a brother. I considered the new information, turning the letter over in my mind. That makes him my uncle. My Uncle Jack.

I was an early riser and plopped down on a kitchen chair re-reading the letter making sure I understood every word. I turned at the sound of Mother’s footfalls growing louder along the hall. Sliding the chair back, I stood, ready for the confrontation. With one hand on a boyish hip, the other holding the letter out, shaking it and my legs spread with toes turned out, I waited. The stance was intentional because it annoyed Frances.

Don’t stand like that, Brenda. You’ll walk like a duck.

I brought my feet together purposefully pointing toes inward, pigeon toed. Frances rolled her eyes and moved past me toward the sink saying over a shoulder, You can be an exasperating child, Brenda.

I shook the letter again and cried in the high voice Mother hated, You never told me you have a brother, Frances.

Her mother wagged a finger. Brenda Johnson, don’t you call me that. Children aren’t supposed to call their parents by their first names. Frances busied with preparing coffee. I made a face Mother didn’t see thinking that parents don’t call their daughters, Daughter so what was the difference. None. I had a valid point but making the face did feel childish for one almost thirteen.

His name is Jack and he called you Francesca on the envelope. Your name is Frances.

Actually it’s Francesca but here Frances worked better.

My eyes widened to their maximum amount. I have excellent control over my voice and facial expressions. Your real name is Francesca and I never knew? You never told me?

It never seemed important.

I reclaimed my chair at the table watching the old pot on the range begin to perk. The smell was enticing but the taste was awful. I wondered if I would ever develop a fondness for coffee. Perhaps that accompanied the other changes I yearned for. Time would tell. One thing was clear. Too much information was coming too quickly.

Mother finally dropped wearily onto a chair across from me sipping from the steaming cup, running a hand over the worn plastic laminate surface. The table wobbled, as did two of the four chairs. What do you want to know beyond that my brother Jack is arriving on the Greyhound tomorrow that was in the letter.

I could see immediately, I would have to pry information from her. Well, for starters, why now and for how long?

Frances stared into the cup. I don’t know for how long, yet. I haven’t decided.

Well, why now?

He wasn’t available until three days ago.

As I suspected, Frances was not being forthcoming. "Come on, Mother. You have to say more than that."

Frances turned her head. Yes, I suppose I do. A huge, exaggerated I thought, lung-filling breath was sucked in and slowly let out at the end of which she said, Jack was released from prison three days ago. He needs someplace to stay.

I stared wide-eyed, again to their maximum. Your brother, my only uncle is a crook? What did he do?

Not murder or some kind of sexual perversion against twelve year olds if that’s what you’re worried about. I think he robbed a bank or something. He finished his sentence and was released.

I hadn’t thought about it long enough to be worried but now concern had to be considered. He’s a bank robber? I nearly shouted using my high voice. And you’re letting him stay here? Despite my shock, I was intrigued. Something interesting was going to happen in my boring life.

Please drop your voice.

Speaking in a low growl, I said, He’s coming from California. The letter was postmarked Los Angeles. Did he live in Los Angeles before becoming a crook?

Can’t you just speak with a normal voice? I’m from California, Brenda. I grew up there in Long Beach as did Jack.

You are? You never told me that. I let my voice become soft, normal. I have excellent voice control and can sing like a bird. Miss Dale had used those very words once: Brenda, you can sing like a bird.

Frances shrugged, I thought I did.

No, you most certainly did not. I crossed my arms indignantly that seemed appropriate to the information I was getting and added, Our last name is Johnson but you told me your maiden name was Cavalino. Italian. So, you and Jack are Italian and I’m half. Paul was Norwegian and German so I’m one quarter of those. Correct?

I’ve told you not to call your deceased father, Paul. That’s correct. We’re Sicilian, actually. Norwegian and German for your father as you said. Frances picked up the letter and read it again. You know all that. We’ve been over it time and again.

Your brother doesn’t write very well.

No, he doesn’t, does he. Our parents died not long after I graduated from high school. Jack is ten years older. Got to running with a bad crowd. I never really knew him. I mean when I was ten he was twenty. Then, I met your father who had just gotten out of the Navy. We married and moved here. This was his parents’ farm. You didn’t come along right away. We tried. I lost two before you.

The conversation was turning out to be mind shattering for me, like opening Pandora’s box and having things pour out that couldn’t be stuffed back in. You did? Were they boys or girls?

I lost them too early to really know.

I could have had two older sisters or brothers or one of each? I considered the implications of that and decided things were better without them but Mother’s face clouded with sadness when she announced it. Perhaps she missed them. I decided not to ask. After all what else was to be said about brothers or sisters that didn’t make it. Still, I felt bad for Mother.

I guess so. Frances stared into my still wide-open brown eyes and sucked in and let out a big breath. Narrow your eyes, Brenda you look like an owl. There’s something else.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know anymore about my newly discovered uncle right then. I needed time to decide how I felt about him coming to live with us.

I’m letting Bill go. I don’t make enough at the drug store and we just did okay with the crops last fall.

What? I said with renewed astonishment. Bill’s been here since I was born.

Not quite that long. You were three, I think. Or was it two? He helped your father and when he died in that car accident, Bill stayed on. Frances sighed in a way that I found irritating because I could never tell what her sighs meant. It wasn’t like laughing, screaming or crying. Those were comprehensible.

I have no choice. Bill understands.

I cast my arms wide again. Who’s going to do all the work Bill did?

Jack.

My amazement grew with each successive revelation. I blurted, Can he drive a tractor, plant corn and soybeans, kill a chicken or anything? What do prisoners learn in prison?

I don’t know. You can ask him. He’ll have to learn. That was the condition of my letting him come.

What does he look like? Wait. You’re forty-three. That means he’s fifty-three. That’s kind of old.

Frances sighed again. It is what it is. He needed a place to live. I said, yes. It’s settled. I need to get ready for work. The garden needs hoeing and tend to the chickens today. There should be some eggs. We could use some. Frances reached across the table taking my hand still holding the letter. It will be all right, Honey. I promise. If it’s not, I’ll tell him he has to leave. Simple as that. Make yourself some breakfast. You’re too thin.

But I want to know about living in California. We’ve never been there. My arms spread wide a third time. I’ve always considered arm-spreading an indication of astonishment. We’ve never been anywhere except that one trip to the Mall of America in Minneapolis last year.

I don’t have time right now. We can discuss it tonight.

Frances rose from the table and turned for the hall to my calling voice. I won’t forget. We’re talking when you get home, before dinner.

Pick some snap beans and whatever else is ready. Frances’ voice trailed off.

____2____

I lay barefoot on the bed, reading a murder mystery from the library van above my age level, a favorite thing to do. It came through town every week on Monday during the summer. I had asked for a wider selection in that genre and the librarian who drove the bus said she would see. Her reply was half-hearted but the woman was always nice despite seeming addled most of the time. A worn paperback dictionary lay on a bedside table. I loved looking up new words and using them on Frances. Insouciant was my current favorite. I’d say to her vexation, I’m feeling insouciant about everything today, Mother, stifling a faked yawn.

Frances’ face appeared in the open door. We leave to get Jack in a few minutes.

The day had passed uneventfully in the usual boring fashion interrupted by repeated thoughts about Uncle Jack’s arrival. I looked up from the book. There is no bus depot in Lundville. I checked. Where do we pick him up?

The bus will stop where it crosses County Road 43.

Will he have luggage? Did they store his things all those years?

I really don’t know. Probably only the clothes he’s wearing.

He’ll need work clothes to work on a farm, you know. Did you keep anything from Paul? I mean Father. My brow pinched as I wondered if my deceased father and new uncle were approximately the same size. I’d know soon.

It will work out, Brenda and don’t call your father that. It’s disrespectful.

I corrected myself, Mother in case you didn’t notice.

I noticed. Ten minutes. My mother’s head disappeared then reappeared. Don’t press Jack about his past the minute he gets into the truck. Take some time to get acquainted. Do you understand?

I nodded, returning my eyes to the book but my mind was on seeing my new uncle. I’d have to re-read the pages.

Ten minutes.

I’ll be ready. Don’t have a fit about it.

Frances let it pass with a roll of her eyes and left for her bedroom. It had been a long day. She was tired. Dinner had been a hasty repast and we hadn’t washed the dishes but the house was straightened thanks to me and Jack’s bedroom, the spare room she sometimes used for sewing, mostly mending, was as ready as it would be.

The intersection of CR 43 and the main highway was thirty minutes away by car. The Ford pickup we had owned for as long as I could recall needed tires Mother repeated absently as we drove to the change in our lives that had shifted for me between trepidation and excitement since reading the letter. The movies my mother had permitted me to watch about prison life and prisoners depicted them as mostly evil, troubled and unkind individuals. I’d know soon if my newly discovered Uncle Jack shared those traits. Could a bank robber be a nice person?

We drove without further conversation to the intersection. I saw no one standing at the roadside and guessed we were early. I glanced at Mother who checked her watch for the umpteenth time during the drive. Frances was anxious, I could tell. Apart from watch-looking, she had that worried look on her face she sometimes had but tried to hide.

After fifteen minutes, the big gray bus approached rounding a bend and up from a dip in the highway. It slowed at the intersection and stopped, its air brakes groaning. My anticipation made my body tingle as the door quickly opened. No one appeared for many seconds. He must be sitting in back, I said.

Presently, a tall man with rounded shoulders stepped down onto the gravel shoulder and walked directly to us. Had Frances told him what our truck looked like? Had she spoken to him on the phone and not told me? However ours was the only vehicle on the road. He couldn’t make a mistake. It had to be him.

He was wearing a simple shirt, trousers and plain brown shoes that looked new. My question about luggage was answered. He had nothing but the clothes he wore as Frances had surmised.

I noticed he shuffled with an odd gait and didn’t smile as he reached the truck. Frances had the window rolled down. Hello, Jack. Slide in next to Brenda, my daughter. He ambled around the truck, opened the door and settled next to me. He was big enough to crowd me to the center, a knee pressed against the shift knob.

Nice to meet you, Brenda. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?

I stared ahead avoiding looking at him with my face inches from his. His breath smelled of food and tobacco. I worked to not let my stomach get queasy. I’ll be thirteen on August eighteenth.

So, your twelve and almost thirteen.

Yes.

Are you looking forward to being a teenager?

Yes.

How far to the farm? Jack said, changing the subject and probably to his sister but didn’t qualify that so I didn’t respond.

About a half an hour, said Frances.

Jack nodded. I’m grateful to you Fran.

I had never heard my mother called Fran either in addition seeing the name written in Jack’s letter. She was Frances to me and everyone we knew.

After a few minutes, I said, On the envelope to your letter you called Mother, Francesca. I didn’t know that was her original name but she admitted it. Is Jack short for John?

Jack chuckled. Guess you read the letter, then. Not that it makes any difference but my given name is Giacomo.

Oh, I said with nonchalance in my normal voice but intrigued by the new names for Mother and new uncle. Things were getting off to an interesting start.

After a few more minutes, Frances said, How was the bus trip?

Long. Two transfers sleeping in bus stations. Lundville isn’t a regular stop.

Have you eaten? said Frances.

The great state of California gave me these clothes, the bus ticket and twenty dollars. I ate twenty dollars worth in three days.

Later, I learned that Mother had sent money for the bus ticket. The remainder of the drive home was in silence. I stole furtive glances at Jack with the pretense of looking out the side window. I wasn’t sure what fifty-three should look like but my uncle seemed old and stooped forwards. Frances was a stickler about good posture often remonstrating me. I wondered if she would ride her brother as hard. Probably not since Frances had said that slouching as a child gave a person a permanent slouch as an adult. Jack’s slouchy posture was probably past improvement. Just as well, because I thought having to endure Mother’s annoying harangue for the two of us would be unbearable. That, plus Jack being ten years older than my mother, correction probably would not be accepted without objection. Of course, having Frances and Jack bickering would divert Mother’s attention from me on the subject of posture. That might be good. Time would tell.

As we pulled into the drive, Jack said, How many acres do you own, Fran?

Three twenty. Had to sell eighty a few years ago. Paul’s parents owned four hundred and we farmed that until he died. I noticed Mother spoke without evident emotion in her flat voice that neither rose nor fell. Things were what they were and crying over them didn’t change anything. That was her oft-stated philosophy spoken in the flat voice. I knew that was an example of Frances’ shell shown to the world like the rock hard shell on the black walnuts that fell from the big tree behind the house before squirrels chewed them open. Only I saw its cracks and the underlying sorrow that my mother hid except in those times I heard her crying softly in her bedroom late at night when I was reading by flashlight under the covers. I wondered if having Jack at the farm would cheer her up. Time would tell about that too but I hoped so.

Frances made Jack a meal that he gobbled down, eating very quickly. I’m very observant about people. He also held his fork wrong as I had been taught. Mother didn’t have anything and I had a grape jelly sandwich with two American cheese slices and a glass of milk – a favorite snack.

Jack had stopped long enough as he ate to ask, Any beer?

Sorry. No alcohol in the house.

Jack glanced at her. Does that mean, not permitted?

I could see that Mother was uncomfortable with the subject. Alcohol had never been in our house. I’d never seen Mother consume it, not even at Christmas.

We’ll talk about that later, said Frances.

I knew that was code for no in Frances language.

Two recent examples came to mind. Can I have a horse? and Can we paint my room black? Both requests received the, We’ll talk about that later, reply.

Before sliding into bed that night, I jammed a chair against my bedroom door under the knob and tested the door. I leaned over the chair pressing an ear to it hearing Frances and Jack talking in the kitchen. I couldn’t make out their murmured words despite my excellent hearing so I crawled into bed, aggravated at not knowing but feeling secure.

The next morning I awoke smelling coffee. I was the early riser in the family. Was Uncle Jack an even earlier riser? Frances had trouble getting up and often had to rush to get to work on time. It had to be Jack messing around in our kitchen. One thing was clear; I couldn’t appear in the kitchen in pajamas anymore if Jack was going to be up first. I hastily dressed choosing a pair of bib overalls and a short-sleeved shirt, then changed into one with long sleeves to hide my skinny arms. I’d change later to do my chores as the heat of the day built.

I removed the chair from the door and walked the short hall to the kitchen. Jack heard, turned and said, ‘Mornin’ there, Brenda."

Should I call you, Uncle Jack, Jack or Giacomo?

Jack stood with the pot in one hand and a cup in the other poised to pour. Well now. That’s three choices. If we throw out my given name, it’s down to two. That’s easier. I don’t mind either but I’d say plain Jack eliminates one word. He held out the pot. Coffee, Brenda.

No, thank you, Jack.

I worked in the kitchen the last few years so I’m a fair hand in the kitchen but more used to cooking for hundreds of guys.

Brenda claimed a kitchen chair. I read your letter as you know and Frances explained where you were coming from.

Did she now. I’d say that was the right thing to do.

What prison were you in?

Folsom. The whole stretch.

How long were you there?

Twelve years all told.

What did you do that got you there?

You know, Brenda, I’ll leave that for another time since we’ve only just met.

He declined to tell me in a nice, friendly way, I thought. I shrugged my acceptance.

Well now. You got some eggs and bacon, and bread for toast. I spotted some jam that looked like grape. Does that sound like a Brenda breakfast?

I have cereal in the morning with toast with the butter melted.

I see. I noticed cornflakes.

I trade off. Some days cornflakes and some days puffed wheat or rice. Frances makes sure we have all three so I don’t get bored with the same cereal.

Sounds like she pays attention to what you like. I see you call your mom by her name.

I shrugged and tilted my head to acknowledge that I did. Sometimes I call her Mother but I haven’t called her Mom since I was little.

Glad we got that straight, Brenda. Tell me. What does your mother like for breakfast?

She’s usually late and grabs a piece of toast, and drinks a cup of coffee, black and not too hot.

That’s good to know. Would she take a fried egg sandwich with bacon inside as she leaves do you think?

My lips pressed into a thin line. She might if it was ready and she didn’t have to wait. Like I said, she’s usually running late.

I’m getting the lay of the land thanks to you, Brenda. I appreciate that. Tell me. Do you have just the pickup?

We have a tractor. Can you drive a tractor?

Guess I’ll have to figure out how. I haven’t driven in quite a while. Have to apply for a license, I guess. I got my old one back but it’s expired.

Was Jack going to live with us permanently? Frances had said she hadn’t decided but maybe that made no difference to getting a driver’s license in Minnesota rather than California. I wondered whom to ask. Not Frances. Maybe Bill if I saw him again.

You don’t need a license to drive a tractor. I can drive it.

Well, I was thinking more along the lines of driving the truck once in a while.

I hadn’t considered that he would drive our truck. There’s a car in the barn.

Does it run?

Not lately.

What’s wrong with it?

It wouldn’t start the last time and Bill pushed it into the barn.

Maybe you can show me where it is after breakfast.

The old blue car was not the most important thing for Jack to worry about in my mind. The corn needed herbicide and the soybeans needed something I wasn’t sure what. And then there was the big garden. Jack could help with that since he was living with us for free. Bill always went home at night and didn’t take meals with us. Frances paid him to do certain things – the big things. The garden was not considered a big thing. But it was my thing, my chore and one I hated almost as much as cleaning the chicken coop. That was the worst.

I decided I needed to know how things were going to work. I’d heard him and Mother talking last night but couldn’t hear what was said. Frances must have said something about that.

How are you going to learn everything about farming? I stood beside the table and settled both hands on my narrow hips spreading my legs but minding the position of my feet. I thought the stance looked resolute without appearing defiant.

Don’t mind you getting right to it, Brenda. That would be the question on my mind. Don’t blame you for asking it. Don’t blame you at all. Jack made a happy face that I found insincere. A slight edge to his voice didn’t match his face. Well, Fran and me discussed that very subject last night. I thought Fran and I, not me. Jack had poor grammar, too. Your hired man, Bill is coming by this morning to show me the ropes. Jack’s face became normal and his voice lost the edge. Now, I don’t expect to learn everything this morning so I’ll have to get advice as needed. I’m sure a smart girl like you can fill in the gaps.

The word patronizing came to mind and Jack’s comment met the definition. I raised my shoulders feeling indifferent and walked to collect the cereal and milk, returning to the table. Jack was at the sink near the toaster. I wanted toast but didn’t want to stand close to him. Jack brought two pieces on a plate he had made but they were cold and the butter sat on them in a thick yellow layer. I stared at them.

Jack snatched the plate away. That’s right you like the butter melted. We couldn’t be fussy in the can. Just ate what was served or went hungry. He made two more slices and buttered them immediately setting the new plate before me.

There you go. All nice and melted.

I didn’t look at him or say thank you, as I knew I should. Instead, I asked, Did you get paid for the work you did in prison? I added, Uncle Jack at the end of my sentence in place of a thank you but knew that wouldn’t have satisfied Frances.

Well, that’s an interesting question. The people who ran the prison considered the work we did as part of learning a trade. I worked in the machine shop, the laundry and toward the end the kitchen.

So, you had to work for free?

Toward the end things changed and we got paid a little.

Did you save any?

Jack chuckled. Not much.

But they gave you twenty dollars, you said.

That’s the way it works. Goodbye and don’t come back. It’s the straight and narrow for old Jack from here on out. I ain’t never goin’ back.

Ain’t was not a permitted word in our house along with all curse words. What would Frances say?

She appeared in the kitchen. I had heard her distinctive footfalls in the hall but didn’t look up from the cornflakes, that morning’s choice. Thus far, I could pick out Mother, Bill and now Jack approaching from the sound of their feet. Miss Dale’s feet were also distinctive because she wore high-heeled shoes that clicked with each step. Miss Van Meter’s steps were difficult because she wore soft-soled shoes. Frances had a pair of high heels but I couldn’t recall seeing her wear them. Funerals maybe or weddings. No one had died or been married that we knew recently to test my conclusion. I considered the warning of footsteps useful. With my excellent hearing there was time to make adjustments like slipping a book under my pillow or anything else I preferred not to disclose.

Frances hugged me. Good morning, Sweetheart. How you and Jack getting on? She grazed my cheek with a dry kiss.

Okay.

Off to a good start, said Jack.

Morning, Jack, Frances said through a yawn. I need to get on my way. Bill will be here around nine as we discussed."

I remember, said Jack handing her a cup of coffee and a fried egg sandwich on toasted white bread with two bacon slices inside in a clear plastic bag. Something for the road.

Oh! This is a surprise. Frances said over her shoulder, Brenda, honey. Please spend some time with the chickens. The coop needs some cleaning.

I choke and cough in there, Mother. I think it’s bad for my health.

I don’t imagine the chickens like it much either. It has to be done. Wear a bandana. That will help. She turned at the door. I know you worked on the garden but it needs more weeding and be sure to water. And Jack, Bill will show you what needs to be done with the corn. Try to make some progress on that. We need that crop of field corn in good shape and the sweet corn is ready to pick. Brenda? Brenda, look at me.

I slowly turned my head knowing what she was going to say.

Pick some tomatoes, cukes and take a bushel or two of sweet corn to the roadside stand today and see what you can sell. Jack? When I’m not here, Brenda needs to take the produce in a wheelbarrow. Maybe you can help her with that and with the picking. Try to be out there by ten.

I nodded vigorously enough that Frances would not say, Did you hear me, Brenda?

All right, you two. I have to be going.

Fran? What ails the car in the barn?

I have no idea. Wouldn’t start. I think Bill thought it might be the starter. No time or money to deal with it right now. Bye." Frances swept through the screen door, its spring groaning before it slapped closed behind her.

____3____

I was in the kitchen having a second bowl of cereal when I heard Bill’s pickup truck rumble on the gravel drive and stop so it had to be nine. Bill was very prompt, a trait I admired and shared. Walking onto the porch, I waved.

I’d devoted an hour to cleaning the chicken coop and decided with the chores before me that was the time available. What I wanted most but doubted I could have was to sit with Bill and Jack to hear how Bill handled the instructions. Jack had gone to the barn and through the open door I saw him looking over the car with the hood raised.

He strolled out at the sound of Bill approaching. I stepped from the porch reaching Bill before Jack.

Hi, Bill. I smiled. I liked Bill mostly because he didn’t treat me like a kid. He respected all the chores I did to keep things going on the farm. We were a team. He did the big things in the fields and I did most everything else when Mother was as work that was most of the time. One thing, the only thing I liked about winter was not having so many chores.

How’s my favorite twelve almost thirteen year old this morning?

I’m good.

You planning a big birthday shindig on let’s see, August eighteenth?

I held the smile. Smiling is not my favorite expression. If I have a favorite, it’s a regular face without anything added.

Jack approached. You must be Bill. Jack Cavalino, Fran’s brother.

The two men shook hands. I saw that Bill was many years younger and stood straight next to Jack’s hunched body. Bill had always seemed older, older than Mother even, but next to Jack, younger. I wondered if Jack was too old to do the work but old man Jensen who lived alone did all the work on his small farm and he had to be at least one hundred people said.

Know anything about the Ford in the barn? said Jack.

Got it out of the way. Not a priority for Frances at the time. Haven’t looked at it. You handy with cars?

No recent cars. Handy enough fifteen years ago, said Jack.

Well, not on our agenda this morning. I’ve got a couple of hours before I need to get on my way. Frances was clear about what she wanted me to run through with you.

Let’s get on with it, said Jack. I noticed he frowned before shifting to a smile like the one in the house that I didn’t trust because it seemed disingenuous – a word I had recently learned.

The two men moved away with Bill taking the lead toward the tractor. I wanted to follow but with Bill gone in two hours, chores came first. Jack probably wouldn’t help me at all with picking and getting the stand set up. I’d done it alone before, of course and Jack needed to learn big things but so far, Jack’s presence hadn’t benefited me one bit.

They walked to the tractor parked beside the barn in conversation I couldn’t hear. Jack appeared to be listening as Bill pointed to various parts of the tractor. I retreated to the porch, collected the broom from inside the door and worked at looking like I was sweeping it with conviction but mostly I furtively watched Bill and Jack.

After a couple of minutes, Bill boarded the tractor, brought the engine to life and worked the controls. Jack climbed up next to him as Bill slid from the seat for Jack to take. The tractor was loud causing Bill to raise his voice.

Not too complicated. Make a couple of turns around the yard, said Bill.

The tractor lurched forward, then slowed and meandered across the drive. I saw the big tank that held the herbicide was mounted to the back. It was full. Bill must have prepared it earlier.

Watch the steering. You have to stay centered in the rows. This is the last application before the field corn is too big. Important to get it done,