Saturday, I worked a half day. October’s when everybody suddenly remembers they have a propane tank.
I was driving home a little after noon in my own pickup when I saw somebody walking along the gravel shoulder of Otter Creek Road.
Very slowly. On the wrong side for traffic.
It was Mrs. Hartmann.
She had on a wool coat, and a clear plastic rain bonnet tied under her chin. Even though it wasn’t raining. She was planting her cane out ahead of her like a woman driving fence posts.
I pulled over and rolled down my window.
“Mrs. Hartmann. Where in the world are you going?”
“I am going to see Dale Thorson.”
“That’s another half mile.”
“I am aware of where he lives, Rebecca. I drove this road for forty years.”
“Who told you?”
“Donna Peterson drove me to town for my prescription on Thursday,” she said. “I can still read a bulletin board.”
She didn’t stop walking. I had to let my truck creep along beside her.
“You may drive me. Or you may follow me. I would prefer that you drive me. Because I would like to have some breath left when I get there.”
I got out and helped her up into the cab.
She weighed nothing. She smelled like wood smoke. I was glad of it.
“I don’t want you fighting my fights,” I said, after I had her seatbelt on.
“I am not fighting anything,” she said. “I am going to ask a former pupil a question.”
She set her cane upright between her knees and folded both hands on top of it.
“I had both of those boys at the same desk. Three years apart. Second row, by the radiator. I know them both a good deal better than you do. With respect.”
Dale was out in his yard when we pulled in. He had the hood up on somebody’s Ford.
He saw my truck and straightened up.
Then the passenger door opened.
And the cane came out.
And then one small black shoe.
I’ve watched my brother-in-law walk out on lake ice in March that nobody else in this county would stand on.
I watched him take one step backward from a woman who didn’t come up to his shirt pocket.
“Mrs. Hartmann,” he said.
And he took his cap off.
He was fifty-one years old. And he took his cap off.
“Dale.”
Specialty: Emotional Turning Points
Rachel Monroe writes character-driven stories about betrayal, second chances, and unexpected resilience. Her work highlights the emotional side of family conflict — the silences, the misunderstandings, and the moments when someone quietly decides they’ve had enough.